


Zephyros

by Imogen74



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of TFP, Before the montage, But is oh so in love with Molly, Existential Crisis, F/M, Facing his feelings for Molly, Had sex with the Woman, Lemons late, Molly is pissed, Sherlock has changed, Sherlock is a bit romantic, Sherlock is being nice, Sherlock is messed up pretty bad, Trying to hold it together, but hurting badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9375710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imogen74/pseuds/Imogen74
Summary: (Zephyros - the Greek god of the West Wind)Sherlock is dealing with all of the things from Sherrinford, not the least of which, Molly Hooper. Some lemons late. Or maybe not so late.





	1. Chapter 1

It was dark out. Of course it was…they had left Musgrave Hall in the middle of the night. He had lost sense of time, place…

…purpose.

Euros had undone him, but he had had that happen before. Many times, in fact.

Every overdose was a rebirth after hell.  
Every time John had nearly perished because of his association with him.  
And Mary…Mary Watson. That was pure and utter pain.

But this was different, as he went back to Baker Street. John was sitting next to him, but he had a different destination, for Rosie was waiting for her Dad. 

And Baker Street was different. He’d need to kip in “C.” An unpleasant prospect. 

Everything he had experienced on Sherrinford would need to be sorted out…everything…but now, all he wanted was sleep.

And a cigarette.

“Where will you sleep?” John was speaking. From somewhere close by…he could hear him, though it was difficult…it was as though static was running through his ears. 

“In C, I suppose.”

“Well, if you need anything…”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. I’ll call you in the morning. This is my stop.”

Sherlock felt John leave. He rested his forehead on the window of the cab as it drove away. It felt cool, calming to his racing, yet stagnant, mind. He sighed loudly and longed for a smoke. “Can you stop here?” he asked the cabbie. There was a newsstand…he felt he was entitled to smoke. 

The cab pulled over and Sherlock paid him. He slowly got out of the cab, feeling as though he had aged some twenty years since the beginning of the day. 

“You all right?” the man at the stand asked. 

“What time is it?” Sherlock pointed to the cigarettes. 

“‘bout five in the morning.”

“Five.” He paid for the smokes and looked around. He wasn’t far from Baker Street…  
He hated that his flat had undergone such damage. It would be tiresome to rectify it…and he lit the cigarette as he began to walk home. 

He needed to face Mrs. Hudson at this ungodly hour. Hopefully she wouldn't speak too much. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever speak again…

…not after what he did.

Sherlock stopped, feeling a sense of vertigo…he reckoned it was a nicotine rush, but could not dismiss it outright. It was likely a reaction to the trauma he experienced…realizing the truth about Redbeard. 

Victor.

He began walking again.

But it wasn’t only that. No… 

He couldn’t face it now. He simply couldn’t. Give it a day or two. 

He trudged up to 221 Baker Street and began looking for his keys. The cones had been moved, the street mostly cleaned of the soot from the explosion. Curious…just “B” was damaged. The building looked healthy otherwise.

He opened the door and walked to Mrs Hudson’s “A” flat. 

He wrapped softly at the door. “Mrs Hudson?” he whispered. Again, with slightly more force. “Mrs Hudson?”

He heard her on the other side, muttering about the time of night…”Oh Sherlock! What happened to you?”

“Everything,” he replied. “Mrs Hudson, I’ll need to take C for a while…until upstairs can be set to right.”

“Of course, but look at the time! And there isn’t any furniture down there. You’ll need to kip on the sofa until I can get something down there that suits,” she stood aside for him. 

He smiled and walked in. 

“Do you want…?”

“Sleep,” he said. 

“Of course,” and she retrieved some blankets and a pillow for him from the closet. 

He sat on the sofa, and took off his coat. His shoes. And his belt. 

He smiled as Mrs Hudson handed him the things, and he went to check his phone.

Right…no phone. It was at NSY. Confiscated. He sighed…best not to think about his phone, anyway. He would be reminded…

He closed his eyes, heavy with exhaustion. 

“You say it first. Go on. Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I…I love you. I love you…”

“Liar!” she spat.

“No! Molly! No please!”

“Why are you lying to me, Sherlock? Why are you hurting me like this?” she was looking right at him from the screen.

He backed away, right into the coffin. He turned around, and there was Molly, lying in the coffin, her eyes closed, her hands folded…

His eyes flew open. He was on a sofa, and the sun was in his eyes. Everything was sore…

“Oh! Sherlock! You’re awake. John is on the phone…” Mrs. Hudson handed him her phone. 

“Hello?” he sat up.

“Sherlock? How are you feeling?”   
“Like I got hit by a bus,” and he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Right. Well, you did, rather.”

“Thank you, John. What did you want?”

“To know how you are after yesterday. That was pretty bloody intense.”

He sighed. “Yes it was.”

“You want to meet for coffee? Or…I could come over to Baker Street. Help with setting up C. Rosie is in daycare and I took the next two days off.”

“Maybe tomorrow. Thank you,” and he accepted a cup of coffee from Mrs Hudson. There was a pause…”If that’s everything…”

“No. Sherlock, are you going to talk to her?”

His back immediately straightened. He swallowed. “Not yet.”

“You need to, you know.”

“Yes. I know I do. But…”

“But what?”

“I need to see to some things. Settle a few things first.”

“You can’t just make her wait, Sherlock. For fuck sake,” John sounded annoyed.

He closed his eyes. “I can’t today.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” and he clicked the phone off.   Sherlock sat back into the sofa and sipped the coffee. He would need to check on Mycroft. Call his parents…make sure that Euros was being treated carefully.

And then…

He sighed. He needed to order furniture and get some people working on 221B. 

Tomorrow he would talk to John. John always had a way with words. Well, his own special way, at any rate. And he smiled.

“Mrs Hudson!” he called, standing. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” she came in. 

“How would you like to go shopping with me?” he winked at her. 

“Shopping? What for?”

“For starters…a phone.”

 

“Mycroft? This is my new number,” Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were walking through the shopping district. They had bought a phone, some clothes, a bed, a rug…kitchen things…though Mrs Hudson was baffled as to why Sherlock needed anything for the kitchen besides chemistry supplies. 

He was short with his retort.

“I’m going to be visiting you soon.”

“Really? Soon? How very droll. Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Because you’re my brother, Mycroft,” he sighed. “Just find a table, Mrs Hudson. I don’t care which,” they were at a cafe, since Mrs Hudson had gotten peckish. “We need to speak about what happened. It was a family affair, after all.”

“Not just, Sherlock.”

“I don’t care to talk about particulars just yet. I’ll be at your office in the morning.” 

“You cannot run from this, and you know it. No amount of story altering will change what happened in that cell,” Mycroft paused. “I know you’ve been through a lot…”   
“You really don’t, though. As you said, everything that I understood about myself was a lie.”

“Not everything…you are glossing over much, brother mine.”

“You can’t have it both ways,” he dismissed. “I’ll see you in the morning,” and he hung up. He sighed heavily, then looked up to find Mrs Hudson with a worried look about her. “What?” he sipped his tea. “This is rubbish. Where’d you get it?”

“Sherlock, what happened to you?” her face was lined with concern.

He swallowed. No use in getting snippy with her. “Well, where to start…? I discovered I have a sister. A sister, mind, who is criminally insane. She killed my best friend years ago, which my memory turned into a dog, because I’m an emotional mess. I’m handicapped, confused, am undergoing an existential crisis, which is doubly annoying, and…” he almost said it. Almost. “Is that enough, you think?”

“I always said you were emotional,” Mrs Hudson smiled at him. “It’s not a bad thing, you know. It helps you to understand people better.”

“I can't even understand myself, apparently,” Sherlock muttered. 

“Now, Sherlock. I think you’re being hard on yourself. So, you have a crazy sister. Every family has one,” she paused. “Though I did think that yours was Mycroft.”

And he chuckled. “Trust you for that.”

“As I always say, family is everything. That’s why I love you, my boy. And why I’ll always be there for you. No matter who is crazy in your family.”

He was smiling broadly…but the thing encroached on him again. “Mrs Hudson. Have you ever been in love?”

“Me? Oh, loads of times.”

“With who?”

“So many people. I love quite easily. Except my ex husband. He was a prat.”

He smiled again. “What was it like?”

“Like? Well, it depended.”

“On?” and he finished his tea.

“On who I was at the time. On who they were…what I was doing in my life. Sometimes I fell in love because of passion. Sometimes kindness. Sometimes…oh anything, really.”

He considered this. “And how did you feel?”

“About?”

He rolled his eyes. “The…state of the thing.”

“Oh, I dunno, Sherlock. I think it’s different for everyone.”

Note to self: Mrs Hudson is annoyingly obtuse when offering information. “Let’s go, shall we?” and he stood.

 

“You say it.”

“What?”

“Go on. You say it first.”

“I…I love you…I love you.”

“You’re a liar!” she screamed. “You don’t know…anything!” 

…and Molly’s flat exploded before his eyes. 

Sherlock woke the next morning in 221A, on the sofa. His back hurt; it would be another two days before he could move downstairs. Another two months before 221B would be ready. 

He thought that perhaps he should start taking cases again. Get his mind moving. Use what he learned. 

What had he learned? 

He sat up. 

Mycroft, then John. Then…

He closed his eyes. He owed her that much. He did…after everything that he did to her. He needed to see her, that night. No matter what excuses he conjured. 

Sherlock Holmes got up and dressed, and headed to Mycroft’s office. 

He decided to walk, to breathe in the air and feel his lungs work. It was best to head in with a clear head to speak with him, since there was so much that needed saying. His hands were shoved inside his pockets as he strolled in, nodding to some of the armored guards. 

“Morning Anthea. Mycroft in?” he smiled quickly. 

“Yes…is he expecting you?”  “I should think so,” and he pushed the door open. “Morning, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock. You’re here early,” and he sat back. 

“Yes, well. I have a busy day ahead,” and he sat across from him. “We need to discuss what happened on Sherrinford.”

“What would you like to discuss?”

“Do you want the list in alphabetical order, or in order of importance?”

“Very well. I apologize. I was acting on my instinct, which, I suppose, isn't always trustworthy.”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

“Mycroft, you do realize that I have a sister that I never knew about, one that you did. And she shaped who I am, in ways that I may never fully comprehend.”

“What else can I do but apologize, Sherlock?”

“Explain.”

He sighed. “I was trying to protect everyone from a dangerous person, while also protecting my sister from scrutiny. Something she always lived with. And she may or may not have deserved it.”

“We should have been allowed to make that decision.”

He titled his head. “Perhaps.”

“This really is unfathomable, Mycroft. Even for you.”

“Is it? I deal with this sort of thing all the time. You deal with criminals.”

“Our sister is a criminal. She murdered my best friend.”

Mycroft’s gaze dropped. “I’m sorry for that. She was always so jealous of Victor.”

He sighed. “You are infuriating. But,” he paused. “You are my brother. What shall we do with you?”   
“What do you mean?”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m calling mummy today.”

“No! Sherlock, please. She will never forgive me.”

“She will, because she’s your mother. But it’s more than you deserve,” he cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose that will do for now.”

“Not so fast, Sherlock.”

He rolled his eyes. “What?”

Mycroft didn’t meet his gaze. “I was there…I saw what you went through, in that room…are you all right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Bit of advice…don’t muck this up.”  “I still don’t…”

“Oh, you can sit there and play pretend all you like. You enjoy games, especially ones you get to rewrite. But this…this is different. Be careful,” he smiled.

“Thank you, Mycroft. You always offer the best counsel.”

He shrugged. “Not my place, I suppose. But you are who you are. Nothing will change that,” he paused. “Except you, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock stood. “I need to meet John,” and he turned, leaving Mycroft alone in his office.


	2. chapter 2

He had meant to speak longer to Mycroft, but when he detected what his brother wanted to talk about, he simply couldn’t. He couldn’t talk to anyone about this except for John. 

And when the time came…  
Christ. He couldn’t even think her name. 

“Hello?”

“John. It’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock? Is this a new number?”

“Obviously. Scotland Yard has mine, with no indication of when they might return it.”

There was a pause. “Well. Shall I head over to Baker Street?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes. I’ll be expecting you. There’s some light furniture being delivered,” and he hung up.

He got out of the cab and walked into 221. “Mrs Hudson!” there were already boxes in the hall, waiting to be perused. 

“Oh, Sherlock. Thank goodness you’re here,” she emerged from her flat. “I had no idea you ordered so much.”

“I didn’t. Not really…there were some things salvageable from upstairs, I’m told.”

“Haven’t you been, yet?”

“Nope,” and he opened a box. 

“Sherlock. You really should be more careful with your money,” she chided.

“It isn't my money, Mrs Hudson. It’s Mycroft’s,” and he smiled at her. “John will be here any minute to help me carry these things downstairs,” and he took a largish box, and went to the “C” door.

 

“Sherlock, did you just buy duplicates of everything you had upstairs?” there were items tossed about, but most of the things were the exact replicas of the furniture found in 221B. 

“I know what I like,” and he placed a skull on the mantle. 

“Did you even go upstairs to see what could be saved?”  

“Why bother? This way, Mrs Hudson can rent out a furnished flat.”

“Of course,” and he shook his head. 

 

They had been working for about three hours, and Sherlock had not spoken much about anything that happened on Sherrinford. “Have you spoken with Euros?”

“She isn't speaking, but I spoke with her immediate caregivers, and I will be visiting her this weekend.”

“Is that smart?”

He looked at him. “She’s my sister.”

“Right… but…”

“I’m going. And I spoke with my parents. They are appropriately furious with Mycroft, and will be paying him a visit this Thursday,” he wiped his brow and sat on his new sofa. “Thank god I’ll have a bed tonight,” and he sat back. “That’s nearly everything, I think.”

“Not quite,” and John sat on the chair that looked precisely like his own, two floors up. He shook his head as he sat. “Sherlock…”

He shifted, and he rubbed his face. “Yes. I know what you want to talk about.”

“Don’t you think that we should?”

He swallowed, and quickly nodded ‘yes’. 

John Watson sat back, looking pensive. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Sherlock!”

He started, “Well, don’t shout. You have my attention.”

John rolled his eyes. “You expect me to start the conversation?”

“I have no idea how to,” and he didn’t. He looked lost…helpless. 

John sighed. “You told Molly Hooper that you were in love with her. That you loved her,” he amended. “Twice.”

At the mention of her name, he winced. The wound was fresh and seeping. “I did, yes.”

“And then you throttled a casket with your bare hands.”

“Yes. I was there, recall?”

“Sherlock. You know what this appears to be, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“Well? Are you in love with Molly Hooper?”

He sighed, rubbed his hands on his thighs, and stood. He walked over to the small window, high on the wall. It was a basement flat, so the windows needed to be smaller. “I must be.”

John let out a very loud sigh. “Good god.”

“Is this…not good?” he stammered out, looking at him.

“No. No it’s quite good, Sherlock. It’s just…so…unbelievable. But, I was there. I heard it. And when you said it the second time, it sounded sincere.”

“I believe that I was…and then…when I discovered that I had hurt her pointlessly, and that I actually could experience that depth of feeling…I went a bit mad. John, how long has this been happening?” he went over and sat across from John once more, desperation etched on his face.

“What? Your love for her? I have no idea.”

Sherlock shook his head and sat back. “I don’t understand.”

“You don't understand what, exactly?”

“Anything, evidently,” and he looked at John. “My entire life appears to have been a means to keep my distance from people so that my sister won’t kill them. And I became a junkie to cope with that fact. And I cannot remember most of it.”

“But that’s beautiful, Sherlock. Don’t you see? You care so much for others, that you didn’t want to jeopardize anyone’s life, and kept your distance.”

“Wonderful. I’ve been reduced to some glib poetic turn.”

“Look, Sherlock. I know you have this idea of who you are. I know that you need to fit a certain mold…but maybe…maybe you need to reconsider that mold.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” John pointed. “You’ve had a shock. You need some time to heal. But before you can, you need to speak with Molly Hooper.”

And Sherlock’s head fell. “What do I say to her?”

“The truth.”

He looked up at his friend. “I have no idea what that is.”

“You love her, Sherlock. That’s all she really needs to hear.”

“I told her that already. Twice,” he spat. 

“Well, loving someone doesn’t meant that you tell them you love them and then abandon them.”

“But, John,” he sounded desperate, and he hated that. “I have no idea what to do with everything that is raging inside of me…it’s as though…a cork was popped, or a dam broke…and the only way I know how to stop it is to repress it. Ignore it.”  

“Has this happened before?” his brow furrowed. 

“Not that I recall. But apparently that doesn’t mean anything. Not with…” he swallowed. “Any sort of…” he paused. “Romantic love,” and he winced. “It hurts, John,” he whispered.

“What does?”

“Everything,” and there were tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. But Molly’s in pain, too. And she needs you, I’m sure of it.”

“No she doesn’t. I’m a broken man. I’m not fit for her.”

“But you’ll have sex with Irene Adler,” sarcasm dripped from his lips.

“The Woman is different,” and he stood.

“How?” John stood with him. 

“She’s…just…” he gesticulated, but could not speak.

“Sex? She’s just for sex?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Though I think you greatly overestimate how many encounters I’ve had with her over these past five years,” he pointed at him. 

“How many?” he crossed his arms.

“Five,” Sherlock smugly replied. “Once every New Year’s Eve.”

“That’s why you were always busy on New Year!” 

He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes,” he muttered. 

John laughed. “Brilliant,” he was smiling at Sherlock. 

“Oh can we stop now, please? This is pointless.”

“Did she beat you, Sherlock?” he grinned.

“Enough. This isn’t solving the issue at hand, namely, what I need to say to Molly…” and everything went black.

 

“Sherlock!”

He opened his eyes, and he was looking up at John. “What happened?” and he sat up. The table was moved, he was on the floor, and his head hurt.

“I think you fainted.”

“Fainted?” he replied with shock, and John helped him up. 

“You said Molly’s name, and you fainted.”

He fainted. He said her name, and fainted. How was he supposed to speak with her? “Can you get me some water?” he sat on the sofa.

“Of course,” he appeared to be concerned. “Have you eaten today, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he took the glass. 

“Sherlock, I don’t know if you should visit Molly tonight. Not if that is your reaction.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I need to see her. No matter what. I promised myself that I would,” and he drank the entire glass.

“Well, let me take you there. We can share a cab.”

“All right,” he sighed. “Let’s go,” and he stood. 

“What, now?”

“Yes. I can’t live like this anymore,” he went and retrieved his coat. 

And John, in a daze, not believing that they were actually doing this, followed him.

 

They got out at Molly’s building, and Sherlock walked over to the basement flat. Odd, that. They were both in the basement now. 

“Don’t leave me, John,” he whispered. 

“I can’t stay here the whole time! You need to go in there, and talk to her! I can't be there. I’m sorry that I had to witness that phone call,” he ended softly.

“Well, I’m sorry your delicate sensibilities were compromised. I was, as you recall, vivisected. That was my word, wasn’t it?” his voice was elevated.

“And what is a vivisection, hm? You were cut open, and there was Molly…”

Sherlock felt dizzy. “That is not the most pleasant of visuals, John,” and he turned toward the door.

And there she was. 

He swallowed.

“Am I interrupting?” she said, looking at them both.

“No! No…we were just…” John looked at Sherlock, who appeared to be pale, and was staring at Molly. 

He hadn’t counted on seeing her would render him so mute, so…vulnerable. He rather thought that he had lived that already.

“…ah…can we come in, Molly? Just for a minute?”

She was looking with some confusion and a touch of disdain at them both. “Why?”

“Well, I reckon that Sherlock here has some things that he needs to explain to you,” he smiled. Then looked at his friend. “Don’t you, Sherlock?”

“Hm?” he glanced down at John. “Yes. Things…” 

“You can explain right there,” she replied. “I doubt it’ll take very long.”

“Molly,” John began. “It would really be better if we came in. It’ll only take a minute.”

“A minute,” she said, looking at Sherlock and sighing. She stepped aside for them to pass. 

Sherlock and John walked in as Molly shut the door. “Well?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I…” he looked at her. She was cross. “I’m sorry, about the other evening. It was…”

“Cruel?”

“Well, yes. That. But you see…” he still couldn’t say her name. “I was under duress. I was made to make that call to you. John here witnessed it,” he smiled at John.

“Oh god,” she cried. “You…” she looked at John. “You saw all that?” and tears formed. 

“Molly,” John began. “Sherlock has a sister. She’s criminally insane. And…she kidnapped Sherlock, Mycroft and I. And…she made us play these sadistic games, and one was…well. It was to get you to say…”

“I love you,” Molly supplied. The tears were flowing steady now. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. 

“Well, it worked beautifully, didn’t it? I said it.”

“Yes. And you’re alive. Euros told me she would blow up your flat if you didn’t say them.”

Molly nodded. “Well, you’re off the hook again, Sherlock. How could I be cross when you were only trying to save my life?” she sardonically said. “You gave an excellent performance,” and she turned to go to her kitchen.

He began to follow…”Molly…” he said, and lost his balance.

John was there, taking his arm. “Careful, mate. Best not say her name.”

“Well, how am I to address her, then?” he hissed.

“Just…use pronouns,” he shrugged, letting go.

Sherlock sighed, and approached Molly. “Look. I know what happened was …”

“One of the worst things you've ever done to me?” she turned the kettle on. “Tea?” she looked at John.

“Now, I did as you asked,” Sherlock protested.

“Under duress. Don’t go on pretending, Sherlock. It’s best if we just forget the whole thing.”

“But…” he began. “I…” he swallowed. “I can't forget it.”

“Try.”

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock said. And he couldn’t believe he did. 

“Why?” she was exasperated. 

“Because,” he took a deep breath. “It’s true…at least, I think that it is.”

Her face fell. She paled. “Get out,” she spat.

“Molly…” John began. “I was there. I saw it. He…”

She covered her ears. “I don’t want to hear it. Not any of it! I can’t. I just can’t. Please…please….just go.”

John took Sherlock’s arm. “Come on. She needs more time.”

“Molly…” Sherlock began, resisting his friend’s pull…and he felt heady. “I’ll be back. We need to sort this…” and they exited.

“Well. That was smashing,” John said.

“It was good that you were there,” and he hailed a cab.

“Yeah. You would have been licking the floor. Not the best way to impress a potential…relationship?” he smiled.

“Good god. I cannot believe that this is happening. I honestly can’t,” Sherlock rubbed his temples.

“Trust me. No one does. Not one person,” he sat back in the cab, thinking about how impossible the whole thing was.


	3. Chapter 3

“I owe you a fall, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Rising waters, your whole life…”

“A fall…” Moriarty’s face was maniacally smiling. “You’re falling, Sher-lock…”

And he turned, and there was a waterfall, and he was standing on a cliff, wet rock everywhere….he had seen this place before. “But I did. I fell.”

“Not really. Not far enough.”

“How much further can I possibly go?” Sherlock cried. 

“When you hit the bottom, you’ll know,” and Moriarty walked away.

He turned around, and was alone. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” 

“Cruel,” Molly’s voice was in his ear. 

He turned toward her voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You don’t know anything, Sherlock Holmes,” and she slapped him.

 

He opened his eyes, and smelled the faint odor of mold. He was in the basement of 221. How much further, indeed? He was in a bloody basement. 

Mrs Hudson should have the place checked for mold.

When he had finally gotten to bed the night previous, it was as though his mind wouldn’t shut off. This only happened when he was on a case. Contrary to many’s opinion, he did sleep. And eat. And have sex. 

He was merely able to do without those things for long periods in a way that many couldn’t.

Even love.   
But then, maybe not so much. 

He rubbed his face and got up. His parents would be coming today to speak with them, and he needed to get himself together. So, he showered and dressed, and saw the tea on the table that Mrs Hudson had brought for him. 

Maybe he needed to treat himself like a case that needed solving. Maybe that way he could make sense of all of these irritating emotions he was experiencing. 

“I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.”

He winced. He would not examine that part of the problem, not right away, anyway. Perhaps if he figured out some other things first, he would be in a better place to figure out…

He breathed in deeply.

Molly.

And his hands shook, and his head felt light.

“No…” he said aloud. “Stay on your feet.”

Head over heels…he laughed. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He poured some tea and ate a biscuit. He sat down. 

Perhaps he should be a bit softer on himself.

Softer, Sherlock, came Euros’s voice.

He shook his head. 

He had been dealt a blow, after all. He needed to figure out who he was now, for he could never be the same again. 

He was capable of deep friendship, and his whole life had been an effort to protect anyone and everyone from some phantom threat he knew as a child….Phantom, because for all intents and purposes, Euros had been eliminated as an immediate threat until recently…. He had made it seem as though he was merely “above” common human emotion, but in reality, he was the most human of them all…

You are the most human human I have ever known, John’s voice echoed in his ear.

How irritating! He admonished people for feeling, when he was guilty of the deepest of feelings. But then, his mind must be unique, to be able to turn that fact on its head so. 

Just like he did with Euros and Victor. 

What he needed to do, ultimately, was embrace this fact about him. He simply didn’t know how. Years and years of denial would be difficult to undo. 

But, if he could erase a sister and turn a beloved friend into a dog, he supposed that this wasn’t too difficult a task. 

His phone rang.

Mycroft.

“Mycroft,” he said.

“Sherlock, mummy and father are here. Are you still coming?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s nearly noon. Have you lost your time?”

Sherlock stood up. “Is it really?” he looked around for a clock, but he hadn’t purchased one, and none of the appliances were set up yet. “Yes. I’ll be there shortly,” and he hung up. 

Noon! And he grabbed his coat, leaving the flat. 

 

“How could you, Mycroft?” his mother was saying. “Our daughter! Our little girl,” she sobbed. 

Sherlock entered the scene to find his mother standing in front of Mycroft’s desk, scolding him; his father was sitting in a chair, and Mycroft’s eyes had fallen. “She was a danger. I was being kind.”

“Telling your parents that their child is dead is hardly a kindness.”

Mycroft looked up. “When your child is Euros, it is.”

“Spoken like a childless man,” Violet spat.

“Mummy…” Sherlock began. “He was doing what he thought best.”

“You’re taking his side?”

“Well,” he paused. “In a way. I understand why he did it. Doesn’t make it right, does it, Mycroft?”

“Right and wrong…”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock stated it in a stern voice.

“No,” replied the elder Holmes, and his head dropped slightly as he folded his hands on his lap. 

Sherlock approached the desk. “Now, things are better. We all know Euros is alive, and we will visit her and acknowledge her as part of the family. And Mycroft has some serious making up to do. Don’t you, Mycroft?”

Said Holmes rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“When did you become the grown up, Sherlock?” his father asked.

“About four days ago,” he replied with a smirk. He turned toward his brother. “You are taking the rest of the day off, and spending it with us. And you will endure anything that we say to you. And this weekend, when I visit our sister, you are coming. And then we will see how to move forward.”

Mycroft appeared as though he might protest, but then decided against it. He opted for a nod instead. 

“Good. Let’s go, then,” and Sherlock led the way out of the office.

 

It was late, and Sherlock and Mycroft were in C, sipping some wine. Sherlock seldom drank, it was never potent enough for him. 

But Mycroft did indulge occasionally, and Sherlock thought it best to join him. 

“I never meant to hurt anyone, Sherlock. Quite the contrary.”

“Seems to be a theme where we are concerned,” and he sipped. “How can you stand this stuff?”

“I ask that of the heroin you consume.”

“Touche.”

Mycroft sighed. “How did we end up like this?”

“Well, I think that we puffed ourselves up because of our minds, and neglected other aspects. And people, being people, care about us. And we don’t know how to reconcile that. We also have horrific self esteem problems.”

“I have a self esteem problem?” Mycroft chuckled.

“Well, we neither of us believe ourselves worthy of love, do we?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Is that what you think, Sherlock? You aren’t worthy of Molly Hooper’s love?”

And he swallowed, felt sick, like a vertigo attack was eminent. “Maybe. But I think that there’s more to it than that.”

“Such as?”

He looked away. “I’m just…confused. It’s incredible to me that I never saw it. That I could love her…and never see.”

“You made your best friend into a dog.”

Sherlock looked at his brother and laughed. “Cheers.”

Mycroft chuckled. “And even more, perhaps?”

“I…” he sighed. “It’s very complex, Mycroft. I’m only now coming to terms with the fact that I’m a very emotional person. That I took a tagline, ‘high functioning sociopath’, made it my own, when it belonged to Euros all along. I could not accept that I was empathic. I could not tolerate love. But all the while, I was those things, implicitly and intensely.”

“Perhaps that is your greatest strength, Sherlock. I tried to dissuade you from those things because it hurt to see you broken after Victor. I knew what you were capable of…” Mycroft paused. “And you self medicated your repression with drugs. I always felt responsible for all of it.”

“Well you were.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Yes I was.”

Sherlock sat back. “We are a sad sort.”

“You have the potential for great happiness, I think. John and his baby…” he paused. “How is John?”

“Well enough. Rosie keeps him busy.”

“Indeed. And Molly.”

“I’d rather not talk about her,” he sipped more wine. 

“You need to, I think. What did John say?”

Sherlock set the glass down, rested his elbows on his knees, and ran his hands through his hair. “We went to see her last evening.”

“And?”

“It was just about as disastrous as you’d imagine it to be.”

He sighed. “She requires more time.”

“That’s what John said.”

“And you too, perhaps.”

“It might be kinder to just leave her be.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Kinder to whom?”

“Mol…her.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock. You can’t even say her name.”

“I’m experiencing some curious reactions to saying her name, yes. Hearing it said renders me off a bit, but I can recover more quickly than if I say it myself.”

Mycroft laughed. “You cannot leave her be, Sherlock. You simply can’t do that to yourself.”

“I may have to. She despises me.”

“She loves you. That emotion…it often takes many forms. A curious complexity of the state. Probably the most nuanced human emotion there is.”  “Thank you for that riveting explanation of love. You sound like a textbook trying to be Shakespeare.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I am only trying to illustrate that she despises you because she loves you. You hurt her. Over and over again, evidently. But still, her love remains constant. If that isn't precious and unique, I don’t know what is.”

“You aren’t helping.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I grant you, you have been dealt a heavy blow. You need to spend some time figuring things out. But don't let her wait forever, Sherlock.”

“What do I do?” he whispered.

“Tell her the truth.”

“Why is that everyone’s advice? I did that already. And I destroyed both of us.”

“Well, now you need to put yourselves back together,” and Mycroft stood.

“How?” he pleaded.

“That is for you to figure out, Sherlock. No one has all the answers you seek.”

“I need new friends,” he smiled.

“You’re the expert,” and Mycroft took his umbrella. “Saturday?”

“Saturday,” he nodded.

 

He couldn't find her. Her…it was a woman he sought. The orgasmic text alert rang out. No no. Not her. 

“Come on Sherlock, come and play…” Euros was running along the gravestones, and she was a little child.

But he wasn’t a child. Not anymore. He was a man…he turned away. 

“Sherlock…” 

There. It was her voice he finally heard. “Where are you?”

“It’s dark, Sherlock. I can’t see.”

“Tell me where you are.”

“…but it’s warm.”

“Tell me!” he was looking around, desperate. “Where…?”

And there was Molly, right in front of him.

“I’m there,” and she placed her finger on his chest. 

He went to take her hand in his, but she was suddenly gone…

 

He woke with his right hand clutched to his chest. 

He was beginning to annoy himself with these dreams. Perhaps he should take a respite from sleep…

Or see what Lestrade might have in terms of casework. That would fill his mind. 

He got up and dressed himself…checked his messages. Nothing.

Well, that wasn’t too odd. Most people probably didn’t have his new number. He slumped in his chair, and thought about what he should do.

How is Rosie? SH

He waited for the responding text. 

Fine. How are you? JW

Sherlock smiled. Looking for company? SH

I’m at work, Sherlock. JW

Right. The clinic. John worked there the latter half of the week, unless something like his mad sister popped up. Ok…I’ll text you later. SH

He sighed. He didn't want to work…an odd state for him. 

All he wanted, all he really wanted, was for her not to be cross with him anymore. To not despise him. Even if she no longer loved him, that was all right. He would deal with it. 

Well, that settled it. He would find her, and deal with whatever she gave him. 

He put on his Belstaff and left the flat.

He really hoped that she was at home, and not at Bart’s. If she was working, it meant that she would be there all day.

But if she was at home, she may be asleep, and would be in a very bad mood if he woke her. 

Well, he’s been selfish all along. Why should he stop now?

Because you love her, you git. He sighed as he strode along. He had opted to walk, clear his head as best he could.

He made his way to her flat, and he walked down the few stairs to her door. He stood there a moment, trying to discern some sound…

…and he did. He heard her crying.

He panicked…had he done this? Of course he did…and he almost bolted…

“Molly!” he pounded on the door…and he felt his knees buckle at his uttering her name. Keep it together, Sherlock…”Molly! Open the door, please!” and his vision swam…

The door opened, and he fell inside her flat. 

“For christ sake, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?” she was standing above him, leaning over, taking his hands…

“Are you all right?” he managed as he sat up. 

“No. And neither are you, apparently. Can you stand?”

He nodded, and shakily found his feet…he held his head…he felt dizzy. 

“I swear to you, Sherlock Holmes, if you’re high…”

“Not high. Might I sit?” he choked. 

Molly nodded and helped him to her sofa. He sat with his hands on his knees and his head hanging. 

“Here,” she handed him some water. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” he looked up at her after finishing the whole glass. My god, she was beautiful. He hadn’t ever really noticed that before…but she was, even with her face flush from crying. “Why are you crying?”

“It’s all I do these days, Sherlock,” and she sat across from him in an easy chair. 

“Because…?”

She laughed. “Are you serious? I can’t work. All I do is sit here and feel sorry for myself, because I let you manipulate me in the most humiliating…” she let out a sob. “I need to get myself together. I’ve used almost all of my sick days,” she said more to herself.

“Mol…” he stopped, for he began to feel the sick rising from the pit of his stomach. “I came here because…to…beg your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it…”

“Oh please. Please. I can’t deal with this now, Sherlock. Please…why are you doing this? You just feel so guilty, hm? Well, maybe you should feel guilty for a while.”

“I do, though.”

“Good.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

“Stop it now. You don’t get to have a laugh at my expense anymore. I’m sitting here, trying to get over everything…even though I know I’ll never completely get over you, I need to forgive myself for allowing you to have such control over my life.”

“I just don't want you to be cross,” he muttered, hanging his head.

“Sherlock…I’m so beyond being cross…everything…” and the tears began to fall again. “I’m devastated. And you mocked my pain.”

“I didn’t,” he gasped. “I…I was honestly, trying to save your life. My sister…she used you against me.”

“Why me?” Molly sobbed. “Why me? I don’t matter…not to you…”

And he fell to his knees and went over to her, closing the short distance between them. “But that’s just it. You do. I told you as much, and Euros saw that. I told you years ago, that you matter,” he touched her hand gently with his own shaking one.

She shook her head. “I’m always last. Always…”

“I know…” he hung his head. “And I think I know why.”

“Why? Why are you here? If I’m last…is this just to ease your conscience?” she grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and took her hand from his.

“No. It’s because…because…” he closed his eyes and swallowed. “Because I could never admit just how deep my feelings were for you. So I kept you at a distance.”

“What?” she wiped her face.

“Mol…” he swallowed, not yet. Can’t say her name just yet. “I wasn’t lying on the phone. I said it, twice, to be precise. And the second time, I meant it. And I realized it just then…”

Her face was blank…puffy and pink with tears…”What? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…that…thing.”

“Brilliant,” she replied with derision.

“I’m saying…” he swallowed, closed his eyes, gaining some purchase of his racing mind and pounding heart. “That I love you. I do.”

“No. You don't get this. You don’t get to do this to me, Sherlock.”

“But I’m telling you the truth!” everyone told him to tell the truth, and he did. And she still hates him. 

“Then you need to prove it.”

“I’m sorry?” he pushed himself up to standing.

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That you love me.”

His face fell. “How? I…”

“Use that brilliant mind of yours. I deserve this. Because I honestly don’t believe you.”

“If you mean rubbish flowers…”

“Do I look like I enjoy receiving flowers?” she asked, brow raised.

“No,” he muttered.

“No. You’ll need to be nice to me, Sherlock. You’ll need to make me believe you…you’ve told so many lies just to get what you want, that there is just no way for me to tell that this isn’t just you needing to clear your conscience,” and Molly stood.

He sighed loudly. Well, what did he expect? She’d just run into his embrace, telling him how much she loved him? 

Yes. That was what he had expected…or hoped for, at any rate. “All right.”

“Really?” she seemed to be surprised.

“Really.”

“Oh…ok…”

“Did you think I wouldn't agree?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. She blushed. 

…and he longed to kiss her. “Are you no longer upset with me?”

“I’m upset with you. You just…surprised me.”

“Well, I…” he looked around. He had done what he set out to do. Mostly. “I have a new number. Lestrade kept my old phone, and the number was too…” he paused. He supposed that he had just wanted to erase everything that he could.

How very typical.

“Too what?”

“Too much tied with the past. I’m moving forward.”

“Oh.”

He smiled at her. “So, if you see a text from a new number, it’s me.”

“Ok,” she nodded. 

Sherlock took a hesitant step toward her. He leaned forward, and he placed a delicate kiss to her lips.

Not her cheek this time. 

And though his mind wanted to deepen it, he stopped, and pulled away quickly. “I’ll text you later.”

“Mm hm,” Molly replied, opening her eyes. She appeared to be in shock.

Sherlock turned, a bit unsteadily, and left her flat.


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t feel completely better, but marginally so. At least she was going to speak to him now. He really felt as though he wouldn't be able to move in this forward direction he kept referring to unless and until she condescended to speak to him.

So…there it was. 

And he was facing Euros tomorrow. 

He entered C…”Mrs Hudson, you’re here.”

“Where have you been off to? Still trying to figure yourself out?”

“Well, I wouldn't put it that way, necessarily. But yes,” he sat. “For lack of a better term.”

“The construction workers upstairs said that the flat will be ready for you in six weeks…just early of their previous estimate,” she sat across from him in John’s chair.

“Good news.”

“Don’t you like your basement, Sherlock?” she smiled.

“Well, it has its charms. Though the mold I could do without.”

“What are you on about? Mold?”

“Mrs Hudson, if you can’t smell that, I suggest you consult a doctor. Fortunately, you are intimately acquainted with one.”

“Who were you just seeing? You seem a touch better.”

He cleared his throat. “M…” he swallowed. Damn it all! “Molly,” and he nearly wretched…

“Sherlock! Are you ill?” she sat forward in her chair.

“No…” but he was coughing…he ran to the sink and got some water. 

“If this is your reaction to seeing Molly, you should probably stop.”

At the mention of her name, he felt dizzy and held the counter to steady himself. “Mrs Hudson, if you don't mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from saying that name.”   
“Whose? Molly’s?”

And a sharp pain seared his brain. “That’s the one,” and clenched his eyes shut.

“But why?”

“I’m…having a reaction to it.”

“Don’t be silly. A person can’t have a reaction to a name, Sherlock,” she paused. “Are you very close? I could never tell.”

He steadied himself and went back to his chair. “Close?”

“With Mol…” she stopped at his raised brow. “With the person in question.”

“I suppose…” he sat back. He never gave it much thought. He was always the one talking when they’d work…and what did he tell her?

…about John. About Mycroft. About work. Mary.   
He talked endlessly…but asked precious little of her. She knew him. Maybe better than anyone, save perhaps John. Mycroft…mm…not really. Actually…thinking on it further, she likely knew him even better than John…

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” he looked at her.

“Are you close?”

“I suppose we are.” 

“Don’t you know?” she smiled.

“I…yes. We are. I know I can count on her. She is a good and dear friend.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Because I hardly do.”

Mrs Hudson smiled more broadly now. “Oh, Sherlock. I think that you do.”

“I’m so glad that everyone is privy to all of these things about me…and they are plentiful…while I remain, infuriatingly, in the dark. What’s ironic is that I am supposed to be adept to the point of miraculous when it comes to observations. Yet I cannot see myself.”

“One of life’s paradoxes.”

“Mrs Hudson, you are a craftsman of the obvious.”

She laughed. “But, why are you feeling sick?”

He sighed loudly. “Well, that’s a bit more perplexing. It seems it’s a physical reaction to her name.”

“What do you mean? You’re lovesick?”

“No,” he spat. “Absolutely not. I also experience a vertigo sensation, so it’s not simply nausea.”

“You’re falling in love with her?”

His mouth set. He rolled his eyes. Then his head fell back. He raised his arms to the ceiling. “I give up.”

“Now, Sherlock, everything will be all right. No need for that,” she paused. “Does she love you?”

He looked at her. He nodded.

“Then what is the problem?” she laughed.

“She also hates me.”

“Oh, well. That’s part of it. The whole lot of emotions. Love’s funny like that.”

He stood quickly, and pointed at her. “That is precisely why I never had anything to do with any of this. It mucks everything up. There are clear answers in the world, until you add feelings.”

And Mrs Hudson stood as well. “Yes, but without feelings and relationships, there would be no point at all to any of it,” and she turned and left.

“What a fatalist,” and he slumped back in his chair. 

He got up again after a few minutes and took out his violin, his new violin, and began composing. Creating a new piece was always…therapeutic for him, and as soon as the bow graced the strings, he felt almost instantly better.

 

“Has she spoken at all?”

“No, Mr Holmes. She’s been here a whole week, and not a word. Though, as I understand it, she didn’t speak all that much before.”

Sherlock was walking down the hall in Sherrinford, carrying his violin. “Oh, she’s said plenty.”

“Do you think she’ll speak to you?”

“No,” and he went through the heavy doors to the armed guards, just outside the holding cell. He went through the frisk, left everything but the violin, and went inside.

And Euros was sitting with her back towards him. 

He got out his violin and began to play…

He watched as she shifted in response to the music…he’d reached her, if only slightly, and that made him smile.

Curious thing, family. Even when they are criminally insane, even if they murder your childhood friend, they’re yours. One of the only things that’s truly your own.

He stopped. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier,” he began. “I needed to sort things out, or at least, begin to.”

Nothing.

“Mummy, dad, and Mycroft will be here shortly, but I wanted some time,” he cleared his throat and set the violin down. “Euros, I know that you won’t answer, but I need to ask you something, since you’re the only one who has the answer,” he paused. “You put us through much. But…I hardly knew how I felt…how did you know? About …?” he swallowed. “Molly,” and his head pierced with pain…his vision blurred, his feet…

No! Stay on your feet, Sherlock Holmes! 

He parted his legs further to distribute his weight more evenly. He grabbed his knees, and he closed his eyes. Deep, calming breaths issued from his mouth as he regained composure.

And when he looked up, Euros was standing, looking at him. 

She cocked her head in question. 

He chuckled. “Lovesickness,” he said, matter of factly.

She blinked.

And he felt as though she either pitied him or abhorred him. 

“I know…I know that I always dismissed her,” he put his hands behind his back. “Moriarty never saw her significance. How did you?” and he began to slowly pace. “It seems that you, and only you, ever noticed. John believed, up until the very end, that I was in love with the Woman. I myself, never thought of her in that capacity…not anyone. Not really…how did you know?” he stopped in front of her, still three feet away. “You got out. Did you follow her? See me interact with her and observe something? It’s baffling, really…the thing that I thought was kept so safe, safe enough that I didn’t recognize it, and you did,” he sighed. “Because that’s what I was doing, wasn’t it? Keeping her safe. From me. From you.”

Euros held a ghost of a smile. “It was your deliberate ignoring of her that I saw. I took a calculated risk, a chance. I did not know, as much as I guessed.”

He stared at her. “Good guess.”

She nodded, her head dropped, and she sat back down. 

“Oh, there you are Sherlock!” he turned and saw his parents and Mycroft enter. Mummy went right to the glass, touched it, and began to cry. 

Sherlock hang back with Mycroft. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” replied Mycroft. “You?”

“All right, I suppose.”

“Anything new on the…matter we most recently discussed?”

Sherlock’s gaze fell. “She’s speaking with me again.”

“Good,” Mycroft smiled. “Baby steps, then.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t being funny. It’s an expression, Sherlock. Surely you’ve heard it before.”

“I have. Still not funny,” and he walked toward his mother, and put his arm around her shoulders. 

After an hour visit, the Holmes family said their goodbyes to the mute Euros, and promised another visit in two weeks. 

And Sherlock’s phone rang out a text alert as they landed back in London.

Lestrade. Missing girl…

He smiled.

 

“No, she isn't far,” he was taking samples from the patio stone outside the girl’s house. 

“Well, when can you have a definitive answer? She’s been gone a day and a half.”

“Give me two hours. I need to get this to the lab,” and Sherlock zipped up the baggie. He was counting on this…while he wasn’t positive that she would be back at work, after seeing her a couple of days ago, he was fairly certain that she would be. And he could talk to her. 

“Where’s John?”

“Visiting Harry with Rosie. He’ll be back tomorrow,” and he hopped in the cab. 

 

To say that she was pleased to see him would be overstating the event…she wasn’t. But neither was she angry, so that was a marked improvement. 

He was sitting at the microscope, and she was heating a beaker. It was only them in the lab, and luckily, there were no postmortems on her list…they were giving her lighter work after her short leave. 

His mind was racing…he was never terribly good at niceties…small talk. 

He cleared his throat. “Are you close with your family?” his eyes still on the scope.

“What?”

“Family. Are you close with them?”

She blinked at him as he looked up at her. “I…not really.”

“Not since your father?”

She swallowed. “No.”

His heart sped up… that made her uncomfortable…”Have you got any siblings?”

“Yes. Two brothers,” and she lowered the temperature on the beaker.

“Older?”

“One older, one younger.”

“Ah. You’re the middle child. So am I.”

She looked at him. “Really? I would have assumed you were the baby.”

He cleared his throat. He deserved that. “Well, up until very recently, I was.” He’d let her deduce whether he was being literal or not.

She smirked a bit. 

A smile! He’d take it. And he went back to the scope. “Do you have nieces or nephews?”

“One of each.”

“I thought so.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“You’re very good with Rosie.”

“Thank you.”

And he stopped. Probably best not to overdo it. 

After another minute…”Ah! There she is!” 

She came over…”You found her?”

“Yep,” he smiled, it was a confirmation, more than an actual discovery. 

…and Molly was close, looking at his notes…he could smell her perfume, feel the heat coming off her person…almost could hear her heartbeat. 

“This is the address?” she pointed.

“Hm?” he snapped out of it. “Oh, yes, there it is,” and he took out his phone. “She’s at her boyfriend’s house and didn’t want to tell her mum.”

“Good lord,” she rolled her eyes. 

He chuckled and put the phone away, then began picking up the lab supplies. 

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up.”

“What?”

He looked at her from the sink. “I’m cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up.”

“That’s right,” and he disposed of the contents and ran the water.

“But…”

“Problem?” he asked without turning.

“Well…it’s just that…you’ve never done that before.”

“Time I started, then.”

He scrubbed some things, rinsed them thoroughly in the deionized solution, and placed them next to the sink. He turned and dried his hands. “Well, I’ll be going. Have a good evening,” he put his coat on, and left. 

That went well. And he felt good about it…being aware of his actions and how they effect others was shockingly comforting. 

And he walked back to Baker Street…been doing a lot of walking, actually…thinking about her, and about their interaction in the lab.

It was good, asking her those questions. He should know the answers, anyway. Someone’s family is an integral part of who they are. He would know.

Into C he sauntered, more at ease than he had been since the events at Sherrinford. He checked his messages…

Thanks Sherlock. Found her. Greg

He tapped the side of his phone. He looked at his kitchen…”Mrs Hudson!” he called. He stood and took off his coat. “Mrs Hudson!” that woman was always around when she wasn’t needed, the minute she is, poof! Gone. He opened the door. “Mrs Hudson!”

She was then at the top of the stairs. “Good gracious, Sherlock! What are you yelling for?”

“Do you still have that largish round table? Sits about six?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I’m having a dinner party.”


	5. chapter 5

He was making notes…pasta. Easy enough. Salad…bread…something from the bake shop for Mycroft. Wine. 

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson came into C.

“Hm.”

“Why are you having a dinner party? You’ve never entertained that much.”

He stood and went to the kitchen. “No time like the present. Or some such thing.”

“But…” she sighed. “Look. I’m not cooking for all these people.”

He looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“You can’t just invite four people over here and expect me to cook for them all!”

“I never asked you to, Mrs Hudson. I’m cooking,” and he went back to the pots and pans.

“You?” she laughed.

“What’s funny?” he took out large pots for the pasta.

“You cook? I’ve hardly seen you make tea.”

“Mrs Hudson,” he sighed. “I’m a chemist. Cooking is chemistry. Not a very great leap.”

“I never thought about it that way.”

“Trust you for that,” he smiled at her. “Can I use your oven, tomorrow, for the bread?”

“You’re making bread?”

“Stop sounding so surprised. Yes. I’m making bread…” he turned away. “Though I won’t be making homemade pasta. Don’t have the proper equipment,” he muttered to himself. 

“Well, I can make the pasta,” she offered.

“You are a dear,” he smiled. “All right…I need to go to the market,” and he went to put on his coat.

“What time are they coming, Sherlock?” 

“Mm…round about six I said. Plenty of time,” and he winked at her as he left. 

 

“Mycroft here wants a large piece of cake, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock was saying as she cut the dessert. 

The dinner had gone well. Greg was seated between Mycroft and Molly, Sherlock between John and Mycroft.

He kept himself as far away from her as he could, partly by design, partly to be able to observe her more covertly. 

Mrs Hudson was sitting next to her, and they spoke a lot during the course of the evening. Rosie was mostly in her dad’s lap, despite the highchair. 

“A smaller piece, Mrs Hudson, if you don’t mind,” Mycroft eyed the cake suspiciously. 

“What’s the matter, Mycroft? Diet not going well?” he laughed.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. But it wouldn't be much of a diet if I ate that much cake,” he cocked his brow. 

“Cheers,” Sherlock raised his glass. 

“You know, I never realized you cooked. All those years living with you…not once did I see you make a thing.”

“I’m full of surprises, John.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” and he gave Rosie a taste of the cake. “Where’d you get this? It’s very good.”

“Bake shop round the corner. New place,” he sipped his wine and glanced at her. She was talking to Greg. Sherlock cleared his throat…and an odd sensation overcame him, and he was suddenly very tense. He needed out of the flat, or he was going to hurt someone…”Excuse me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

He grabbed his coat and pulled it on…the clandestine place where he kept his cigarettes was, luckily, by the door. 

He hadn’t had a smoke since that night after Sherrinford, which he considered to be fairly remarkable. He was doing quite good.

He lit it and smoked it deeply…

…and felt almost instantly better. 

He looked up at the stars, the night was chilly…beautiful, really…

“Sherlock?”

He jumped, and turned. “Molly!” he instantly regretted it. His head hurt, he fell backwards into the side of 221…his knees almost gave completely out. He held his head with the hand the cigarette was in…trying to regain himself. “Sorry…” he was saying as he stood upright.  

She was taking his arm. “Are you all right?” 

“Fine.”

“Sherlock…this is me you're talking to,” her voice held warning.

“I’m unaccustomed to being taken unawares like that.”

“I should think so,” she smiled. “You’re smoking.”

He took a drag. “Just a bit.”

Her gaze fell, and she hugged herself. “You’ve hardly spoken to me at all this evening. It’s almost as if you’re avoiding me.”

“Not avoiding, no. Just giving you…” he paused. “Space.”

“But I’m here for dinner. With you.”

“You’re my friend. All of my friends are here.”

She nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Yes,” and he realized that he was looking at her quite intently, so he took a final drag and put the cigarette out, tossing it into the bin. “Shall we go back in?”

“Ok.”

He looked at her crookedly…something was wrong. “Are you all right?”

“Mm hm. Yes, I’m fine.”

He nodded and gestured for her to go ahead of him. 

 

“I’m almost afraid to mention it, but Sherlock, you’ve been getting my name right since the stuff at Sherrinford. If that’s not a reason to toast, I don’t know what is,” Greg laughed.

“To Greg,” Sherlock raised his glass.

Everyone laughed and joined, “Greg!”

“Well, I suppose I should clean up,” and Sherlock stood. 

“Right, my cue. Man with toddler should never stay past nine, or clean up,” he smiled and got Rosie ready. 

“I’m going too, John,” Greg stood. “We can share a cab. Thanks, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson. Really lovely.”

And they said their goodnights. 

“I’ll help, Sherlock.”  “Mycroft?” he laughed. “I won’t turn down the offer. A once in a lifetime opportunity, no doubt.”

“I knew you never helped your mum, Mycroft Holmes!” Mrs Hudson said, scandalized. And she went to Sherlock, gave him a peck on the cheek. “Lovely, dear. Just lovely.”

“Goodnight,” Sherlock said as she left. 

“It isn’t quite as nice as B, but I like what you’ve done with it. What do you think, Miss Hooper?”

“I think it’s nice. Cozy…” she said with a smile. Molly was on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, and she was sipping wine. 

“Mm…cozy. Not exactly the adjective I’d use for things related to my brother, but then, he’s changed.”

Sherlock was listening intently as he loaded the dishwasher. 

“People change. But they often stay the same, in less obvious ways.”

“Well observed, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft smiled.

“Molly,” she smiled in return.

…and Sherlock staggered, nearly falling into the dishwasher’s open door. 

“Sherlock!” and she stood. “There’s something wrong with you. You need a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” he rubbed his forehead. 

“No you're not fine,” she went over to him, and took his hand down, examining his face. She placed her palm to his forehead, checked his eyes intently. “You need a doctor. Even if it’s only John.”

“Trust me, Miss Hooper, Sherlock is fine.”

“I don’t think he is, Mycroft. Every time I see him, he’s a step away from fainting…” 

Sherlock’s heart was pounding. Her palm was on his cheek…it was as though she had forgotten she had put it there. She dropped her hand to his elbow. 

And then she looked at him again. “Promise you aren’t using.”

“Promise,” he said softly.

She swallowed, nodded, and backed away…then turned and went back to the sofa. 

Sherlock gave Mycroft a look that said, 'that was close.' Mycroft nodded. “Do you enjoy your work, Miss Hooper? I’m afraid we’ve never really properly spoken.”

“I do, yeah, but please call me…”

“…I prefer to retain some formality with people I’m not intimately familiar with,” he interrupted her before she could say her name.

“Oh,” she replied.

“That leaves me and our parents, by my calculation…and I only stopped calling you Mr Holmes about two years ago,” Sherlock laughed, and smiled a 'thank you' to him.

“Five,” Mycroft replied. 

Sherlock winked. “More wine, Mycroft?” as he wiped off the counter.

“No, thank you though. I should be going,” he got his coat and umbrella. “Have a lovely evening,” he nodded to them both. “Delicious, Sherlock. Thank you,” and he left. 

Sherlock took his glass and the bottle, and went over to her, pouring more into hers, then his, and sat across from her. He sipped. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you now?”

“Bothering me?”

“Yes. I’ve noticed that you’ve been rather put off all evening.”

She sighed and sipped some wine. “It was a lovely evening, Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“But…” she hesitated, then laughed. “There is something wrong with you. I see it, and you’re not telling me,” she paused. “Are you dying?”

“What?”

“You have all of your friends over. You cook. You claim you love me. You’re falling all over the place…”

“I’m not dying.”

“Promise?”  

“I promise.”

“Ok,” and she pulled her legs up under her again. “It was really good. The dinner. I had no idea you could cook.”

“Only Mycroft knew,” he sat back. 

“You’re closer with him than I imagined.”

“Are we?” he considered. “We give one another a lot of grief, I suppose. But there’s always love there.”

“That’s nice.”

“Is it?” he sipped more.

…and then she did. “I was never very close with my brothers.”

“No. Just your dad.”

She paled a bit, but then nodded. “I loved him very much.”

“Sure.”

“He…understood me.”

He cocked his head. “How?”

She swallowed. “Well…he…he just…talked to me. Told me everything about him. And I was fascinated.”

“Was he fascinating?”

“Not really,” she giggled. “But at the time, he was to me.”

“That’s all that matters,” he smiled.

“Sherlock…”

“Hm?”

Her gaze darted downward. “Nothing.”

“What is it?”

She sighed. “Thank you for tonight. It was lovely,” she stood.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I should.”

Sherlock nodded, and stood as well. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you, then.”

She nodded, then got her jacket. “You’ve changed, haven’t you?” she asked without looking at him.

“Yes,” he replied, in a low voice. 

And she turned. “I mean, I’ve seen it…gradual and slow…but whatever happened to you on that tiny island…it was a quick change. It was dramatic.”

“Well, yes. I wouldn't be human if that experience had no effect on me.”

“Are you human, Sherlock Holmes?” she smiled, but was slightly serious.

“More than you know…” he almost said her name. 

“No. I’ve always known,” and she left. 

“That you have,” he said to no one. And he looked around…nothing left to do except put the table away. He’d see to it in the morning.

 

He was walking. He was walking to Bart’s…  
Why was he walking to Bart’s? It was so far from Baker Street..

And up ahead, he saw two people walking, hand in hand. He squinted to see them more properly…  
And it was Molly.  
She was walking with…

Oh good lord.  
Tom.

“Molly!” Sherlock called. He picked up his pace. “Molly!”

He reached them, and he touched her arm.  
She turned, looking at him with contempt. “What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“I’m going to Bart’s. What are you doing with him?” he nodded in Tom’s direction.

“We’re getting married,” she cooed.  
 “What?”

“That’s right, Sherlock. He’s a better man. A better human being. I was so silly waiting for you all those years…”

“But…” he was shocked. 

“Bye, Sherlock,” and she turned to Tom and kissed him deeply.

 

He opened his eyes and felt sick. Maybe he was coming down with something. At least he wouldn't be mortified on top of everything else. 

He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He sighed loudly. It had been a nice evening. But he wasn’t sure if he had gotten the exact reaction he had hoped for. 

He had been acting in a way to prove to Molly that he had changed, and while she saw that, she did not seem convinced of his love yet. He rather hoped that the evening would have begun with her in his embrace, and end around noon. 

Clearly he had been overly optimistic. He was trying to be realistic, even though his heart demanded that he act. That stubborn vessel was so irksome.

Language was limiting. Proof was difficult. Examples were insufficient. 

What else was there?

Him.

He needed to convince himself that he was worthy of love…that was what he had told Mycroft. He really didn’t believe that. He had been all brain and no heart, all the while his heart was fit to burst…no wonder he was a junkie.

But the question was how? How to prove himself to himself? Perhaps there was no easy answer. He rolled onto his side. 

He would just need to wait. 

How long? …and he thought of his reaction to seeing her talking to Greg. 

Jealousy.

Instantly, he was disgusted. Would he always be like this? 

“God I hope not,” and he sat up. 

He checked his phone…no messages. Perhaps he should consult his email and have an open office day…

And he did.

 

“Oh, Mr Holmes…do you think that she’s alive?”

He was sitting with his forefinger on his brow, furrowed as it was. His legs were crossed, and he gave every appearance of not paying any attention. John was sitting across from him. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

John smiled at the client. “I’m sorry Mrs Kelly…Mr Holmes isn’t quite himself today.”

“She’s alive and in Dorset. She doesn’t want to be in touch because you neglected to give her sufficient funds for her wedding. She got pregnant, left without a word due to shame, and the baby is now not yet a year. Not sure of the gender, but the balance of probability is it’s either a boy or a girl,” he paused, looked up, and dropped his hand to his lap. “Next!”

John smiled at the client. “Ah…if there’s anyone else out there could you ask them to come back in an hour?”

“Of course,” Mrs Kelly was shocked and slightly affronted, by the look of her. 

She left, and John looked at Sherlock. “How did the dinner go, Sherlock?”

“You were there.”

“Yes…and Mol…”

Sherlock held his palm up to stop him. “Not. Yet.”

He sighed. “This is rather ridiculous, you know.”

He dropped his hand. “Not exactly my idea of fun. Certainly not how I ever expected to experience love,” and his head fell back in his chair. 

“It is pretty odd. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it. Psychosomatic, but other than that…”

“I’m unwell, John. Look at my family. It makes sense.”  

“But these reactions are to a name.”

He looked at John. “The only theory I have is that this particular emotion or state or whatever rubbish you want to call it, was latent in my mind for so long, and so neglected, because I have no idea when I actually starting having this depth of feeling for her, that its realization is manifesting itself violently.”

“Decent theory,” he sat back with a look that suggested that that was what he was going to say, but not really.

He sighed, and his eyes fell to his lap. “She saved my life, you know. When Mary shot me.”

“Mol…I mean…she did? She wasn’t there.”

“No. She was here,” and he tapped his temple. 

“I don’t…”

“My mind palace.”

John nodded. “She’s there too, huh?”

“Yes,” and he looked to the ceiling once more.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“What would you expect me to say? I had no idea what I was experiencing,” he looked at him angrily. “I had absolutely no inkling that I felt anything outside of friendship for her. Occasionally jealousy, but I assumed that was just an attention thing on my part.”

“Jealousy?”

“Meat dagger.”

He nodded. “That was pretty…”

“Moronic?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. So…she followed you outside last night.”

Sherlock nodded. “She did, yes.”

“And…?”

He sighed. “I said her name accidentally and nearly fell right on my face.”

“Jesus.”

“No, he wasn’t there, and I’m not convinced that he could do anything about this, either.”

John chuckled. “This is just so…bizarre…the whole of it.”

“Thank you, John. Your observations are, as per usual, astounding,” and he stood. “Tea?”

“Thanks,” he turned and watched him make the tea. “Do you have any plans how to get on with it?”

“Perhaps I just forget about the whole thing, and avoid her, and everyone who shares her name, for the rest of my life.”

“Sherlock!”

He smiled, leaned against the counter, and folded his arms. “No. No ideas. She doesn’t believe me, and why should she? I’ve attempted to draw her out, and have had some success…trying to prove to her that I’m not the same cock who made fun of her one Christmas Eve…”

“Oh my god that’s right! And then you apologized! You never apologize.”

“No…” and he considered as the kettle screamed. The scene unfolded before him…he recalled that he had deduced that she, given her outfit, had a new boyfriend…he closed his eyes…

“Sherlock!”

His eyes flew open…and he instantly felt searing pain in his hand. “Ah!” and he threw the kettle into the sink…

He had poured boiling water onto his hand. 

“For fuck sake, Sherlock!” John wrapped a cold cloth around his hand.

“John…” he was being led to the chair. “I was jealous, even then…”

“What are you talking about?”

“That Christmas…when I made fun of her…it was because I was jealous, thinking that she had a new boyfriend..” he shook his head. “My god I am pathetic.”

“No, you’re figuring yourself out.”

“It’s limitless…”

John sat across from him. He was staring at Sherlock. “You’re a good man, Sherlock. I can tell you until I’m blue, but it won’t mean shit until you believe it yourself.”


	6. chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small bit from Molly's POV. Apologies for this quick diversion from the established mold, but I needed to do it.

Desperation is a harrowing journey. “Tempt not a desperate man,” Shakespeare had said. 

In Romeo and Juliet, of course. 

And that’s where he was…desperate. He had never felt this way before. Alone, confused, uncomfortable in his own mind…it was as though he mistrusted it, that which he had always relied on.

It was then, that night, with a bandaged hand blistered with burn, that he decided to visit his mind palace. 

He was nervous at what he would find there. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, and closed his eyes…

 

It was dark.  
Of course it was…

He looked around.  
The cell…He swallowed. 

The television turned on…  
“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Molly…” he gasped, going over to her image on the screen. 

“Better make it quick.”

“I…don’t understand.”

“Quickly, now,” her voice was sweet.

“I love you,” he searched her face.

And she began to cry. “No you don’t. You never showed it…”

“I know, and I’m sorry, Molly. I just didn’t realize.”

“A westerly wind is blowing, Sherlock. Tides are changing. You need to do something about it.”

“What?” he choked.

“She’s right, brother mine.”

Sherlock turned around to see Mycroft standing at the opposite end of the room. “What’s right?”

“Molly Hooper.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Demons, recall. And yours are unleashed, and the time is beckoning…”

“I need more time.”

Mycroft smiled. “She was everywhere, you know. Everywhere you looked…”

“Molly was?” He looked at her, and she was smiling at him from the screen.

“Your mind wouldn't allow it, but your heart made you face her every day.”

He turned back to Mycroft. “Help me, brother.”

“…find my room.”

And Euros was in the room with him, Mycroft was gone. “What?” Sherlock asked.

“Your love will save me. It’s all I’ve needed…starving, really. But I kept my head high, knowing that eventually, you’d either see me or I’d die.”

“You aren’t dying, Euros,” he dismissed, and held his temples.

“No…but you are killing her.”

He looked, and she was gone. He turned to the screen…it was static. “Molly?” She grabbed his hand…and when he looked, she was in the coffin. “Molly!” he pulled her up. “Come on, Molly, we need to get out of here.”

“There’s no leaving, Sherlock. This is all that’s in your Mind Palace now.”

He looked around. There were no doors… no windows. “It’s all gone?”

“No. But this isn't solved, and until you do, this is all that you will see.”

“How?” he held her hand tightly, desperate. “I want to help you…” he searched her face.

“A westerly wind is blowing, Sherlock…” and she dropped his hand and got out of the coffin. “Tides are changing.”

He swallowed, watching her retreat to a corner in the room. “Molly?”

And she sobbed. “So much time…so many words never said…tragic and trite…” tears were pouring down her face. 

“You are neither tragic nor trite, Molly Hooper,” he whispered.

“Solve it,” she sneered…

 

And he eyes flew open. 

The sun was peeking out, dim and grey in the dank dawn light. He had been there all night. His head fell back, and he considered what he had just seen.

Demons, she was there all along…solve something…westerly wind. 

Brilliant. 

She had reduced his mind palace to a cell. His mind was a prison. 

“Not comforting,” he said, and stood. He felt a bit heady, not having received proper sleep. 

He went to make coffee, and ignored the sting in his left hand. John had wrapped it up, so it wasn’t smarting quite so bad.

He was torturing himself. That’s what it felt like. Like, his mind was punishing him. 

Maybe it was.

He sighed and held onto the counter. 

He wished that there was a way to just go to Molly’s flat and she would be pleased to see him. And then they could make it up, have sex, and be on with it. 

For he was fairly certain that there was absolutely no way that he would ever be able to get over her. His first love was likely his last. 

Unless there was some secret girlfriend he didn’t know about and turned into a bird or some such nonsense. 

He paled. 

Mycroft there isn't any girlfriend I’ve conveniently forgotten, is there? SH

He waited impatiently for a response. He surely was awake. The man never slept. 

No. Not that I know of. Why?  MH

Just making sure. SH

And his phone rang. 

Damn. He just wanted an answer, not an entire conversation. “Mycroft, I only was asking because I can’t really trust my memories.”

“Why are you texting me at five thirty in the morning?”

“Why not?” he poured his coffee very delicately.

“Because it means you aren’t sleeping. Did Greg give you a case?”

“No. I found my own.”

“What is it?”

“Me,” and he hung up. 

He sipped the coffee and sat down. Probably should shower…but then, he looked at his hand. He sighed.

Sherlock took out a notebook and pen.

Westerly wind  
Solve case  
She was there all along

He sat back. Westerly wind might be a reaction to Euros’s name. He’s changing, carving his own path.

She was there all along…well, that was fairly obvious. She’s been in his life for years. But what case? Him? Her? Both of them?

It was maddening, trying to decipher it. And how could he, if she was barely speaking to him?

No, that wasn’t right. She was speaking to him. She was just guarded, as she should be. Natural to be on your guard when you’ve been hurt.

And he closed his eyes, remembering that phone call…

He hadn’t thought about it at all, it was too painful.

She pleaded with him not to, but how could he risk her life? And he was getting angry, she had always done what he asked. When it mattered the most, she was arguing.  
He also knew, when she told him to say it (first) it would mean hurting her more, and he hated himself.  
But then he said it.  
And he realized, looking at her, that he did love her. He loved her, and he just destroyed her.  
He loved her, and there was no way to ever tell her again, because he had just ruined it all. He had rendered the words meaningless in her eyes.  
And he had done it for naught; destroyed the woman he loved, destroyed his own sense of who he was, and then he destroyed that coffin. Because something had to bear the rage of his heart. 

He opened his eyes, and tears fell. He had bellowed out the pain and torture of a heart long neglected, he had awoken a beast with that realization. He had silenced it for long enough, and now his heart was exacting its revenge.

His heart would never let him forget her, so it reminded him every time he said or heard her name. 

And the blood flowed. 

He wiped his face. Well, he supposed that needed doing. He needed to think about it, face it for what it was. 

He sighed and leaned on the kitchen table where he sat, his hand on his brow. 

Sherlock took out his mobile and looked at her name in the contacts. He swallowed. 

Are you free for coffee?

His finger hovered over the send button. He closed his eyes and pressed it.

He wouldn't look at it straight away…so he wrapped his bandaged hand in plastic and prepared a bath. 

He both longed for and dreaded her response.

 

Molly looked at the text he sent her. 

About half an hour ago now.

She swallowed, and was about to respond, when there was a ring at the door. She went over and answered it.

“John! You’re here early…is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Molly…can I talk to you for ten minutes? I promise it won’t take any longer than that.”

“Yeah, ok,” and she stepped aside. “Is this about Sherlock or Rosie?”

“Sherlock,” he turned and smiled at her.

Molly braced herself, nodding. 

“I don’t know if you believe him, about Sherrinford, and that’s really why I’m here. I want you to do what you need to do. I’m starting to realize that your relationship with him is way more complicated that I ever knew.”

She nodded, hugging herself tighter. 

“So, yeah. It’s true. He has a sister, and she told him she would blow up your flat if he didn’t make you say those words. Now, that’s awful. That is seriously mucked up. But I keep wondering, why you?”

“You’re not the only one.”

“But…I think…” he paused. “Euros, she is apparently the most brilliant mind in a century or something. She knew something, Molly. She saw it, and she knew that Sherlock would never admit it unless he was forced to.”

“You’re saying that he was telling me the truth?” she laughed.

“I was there. I saw it. It seemed genuine…he said it twice, mind. He only needed to say it once.”

“How can I possibly believe him? What has he done to make me trust that he’s not just trying to get me to forgive him?”

“Nothing.”

She sighed. “I don’t know, John. I just…I just don’t know.”

“I understand. Well, I did what I came to do,” he smiled. “So…have a good day, then.”

She smiled, and gave him a hug. “Thanks for coming.”

John turned and left.

And Molly looked at her phone harboring the as yet unanswered text.

 

His phone was ringing. He hated it when his phone rang. He wrapped his dressing gown around his still wet body and looked. 

He began to shake. 

Instantly, he answered. “Hello?”

“Hello Sherlock. It’s…”  

“I know. Ah…” he sat down. “Did you receive my text, then?”

“Mm hm. Yeah.”

“And?”

He heard her sigh. 

He swallowed. “If you’re not feeling up to it…”

“No, it’s fine. But just coffee, ok? I have things to do today.”

“What are you doing?” There was a pause…”Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“Well, what are you doing?”

“Things, Sherlock. I have things outside of every little thing that you ask me to do. God, you really are…”

“Molly…” and his head spun, and the pain seared…He started to wretch. 

“Sherlock! Are you all right?” she cried.

“Hang on,” he said, setting the phone down…and he got up, and expelled the coffee from his stomach into the toilet. He wiped his mouth and rinsed. He staggered a bit back to the table, toward the phone, where he heard her crying his name.

“Sherlock! Do you need me to come over? Sherlock?”

“I’m here.”

“Oh my god. Do you have the flu? What is going on with you?” she was distraught.

“Sort of. I’m feeling better,” he paused. “So, coffee…” though coffee wasn’t high on his list of desirable fluids just then. 

“Are you up to it?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly.”   “I just heard you wretching in your toilet,” she observed.

“I have a formidable constitution, and am already better,” he replied, a slight smile on his face. 

“Good god,” but there was a smile in her voice.

“What’s your favorite cafe?”

“Well, I like Commonwealth.”

“Good. Be there in an hour?”

“All right.”

And he hung up. He smiled…that went all right, all things considered. Well, vomiting aside. 

And he thought of her…and her smile, how he heard it in her voice…

He rubbed his face with his uninjured right hand and stood to get dressed.


	7. Chapter 7

He walked into the cafe an hour later and scanned the place.

She was sitting at the far end in the corner, by a window, and holding her cup (latte, medium sized) with both hands. She was also staring at it intently. 

Nervous.

He took a deep breath through his nose and went over to her. For a moment he lamented his arriving after her, for he thought that he would treat, but decided that this was best. Didn't want it to look too much like a date.

Because it wasn’t.

“Latte. Any good?”

And she looked up. “It’s good. What I usually get when I come here.”

“Mm…I’m a purist when it comes to coffee,” and he smiled, and went to the counter to order.

He went back with his own cup (black, two sugars), and sat down across from her. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“What happened to you hand?”

“I…” he cleared his throat. “I burned it making tea.”

She looked at the wrapping crookedly. “John was there. He took care of it?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. 

“How did you know John was there?”

“It looks like a doctor wrapped it. Must have been pretty severe,” she sipped.

“Well, it was boiling water.”

And she looked at him. “You poured boiling water on your hand?”

“I did, yes,” and he thought a change in conversation was warranted. “So…”

“Sherlock…there are things happening. Something is happening to you. Is this about your sister?”

“Well, in a way, yes.”

“You can tell me…” she paused. “If you need to talk with someone.”

And there it was. He suddenly remembered how often she said those words to him, and how every time he accepted her offer. And he couldn’t decide if it was because he loved her and wanted to share his life with her, or if he just needed a sounding board. 

Probably a bit of both.

“I’m fine. Another time we can talk about Euros. She’s an enthralling person…” he paused. “But I’d rather talk about you.”

“I’m not that interesting,” she blushed.

“I think that you are.”

And her eyes shot to his. She swallowed, and took a long sip. “Sherlock, why are you doing this?”

He swallowed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

And she shook her head.

He sighed a bit and looked at his cup. He almost said it again, but decided that it would only put her off. “Because, I’ve been unfair, and I’m attempting to right some wrongs. And I happen to want to understand you better.”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you want to understand?”

“Well…” he sat back and sipped some of his coffee. “What did you want to be when you were a child?”

“A zoologist. You?”

“Pirate.”

And she laughed. 

“Fond of animals, then?” he smiled.

“Yes…but they aren’t so fond of me. I’m better with plants.”

He nodded. “I suppose, all things equal, that working with cadavers isn’t that much different from plants.”

“Being a pathologist is like discovering a story. That was mostly what drew me to it. When I was in secondary school, I wanted to write,” she paused. “But I…wasn’t as good with words as I thought…better with science,” she shrugged. 

“Good call.”

She shrugged. “My mum wasn’t too pleased.”

“Why not?”

“She said it was isolating, and that I needed to make friends.”

…and suddenly he began seeing her very differently. “You didn’t have many friends?”

She chuckled. “No,” as if it was obvious. “I’ve always had a couple of good friends. but that was it.”

She was a bit of a misfit.

…just like him.

“But your dad supported your decisions.”

She nodded. “He only ever wanted me to be happy…was your mum pleased with your choice of job?”

“She… yes. My parents never said much about what Mycroft or I did. It makes more sense with the perspective I now have, but at the time, it seemed like casual indifference.”

“I can’t imagine having sons like you and Mycroft,” she smiled. 

“Add Euros and if you’re not insane, you’re on drugs.”

She smiled very slightly.

“Sorry,” he had been indelicate, forgetting how much that upset her. “Trying to explain that everyone in my family is slightly insane, with a bit of inappropriate levity.”

“S’okay,” she shrugged. “I shouldn't let it bother me so much,” she looked at him. “But you’re my friend, and I worry about you.”

He nodded. “I don’t deserve you,” he finished his coffee.

“No. You really don’t.”

But when he looked at her, she was smiling. 

“How is work? Have you taken any interesting cases?” she asked.

“Yes. One…” he paused. “Very important case, actually.”

“Oh?” she was interested.

“Yes. It’s rather psychological in nature. This fellow, he…experienced a trauma in his childhood and changed his memories in order to cope. And recently, he discovered a horrific crime took place which caused the trauma.”

“And you are trying to solve the crime?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Molly nodded slowly. “The human mind is an incredible thing.”

“It is, yes,” his gaze was very fixed on her…she appeared to be sleepy, she was wearing makeup to conceal dark shadows under eyes. Her sweater was grey, no prints, which said that she was sad, or depressed. She often wore what she felt. Her hair was neat, though, she took some care with it that morning. 

…she blanched under his scrutiny. “What?”

“Nothing,” his gaze fell. “At any rate, it’s rather unchartered territory for me. A new challenge.”

She nodded. “So, I should be going.”

“All right. I’ll walk you.”

“Actually, I’m heading in your direction for my appointment.”

“Wonderful,” and he stood. “What appointment?” as they left.

“Hair.”

Ah. Yes…she had taken care for the hairdresser’s benefit. And he was almost disappointed. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I suppose I need to call on John soon. Shouldn’t really neglect our goddaughter much longer,” and he chanced a glance.

She looked away…”No.”

“Have you seen Rosie?”  

“Not since your dinner. John hasn't needed a sitter, though I should probably stop by as well.”

“Maybe we could go together…”

She stopped. 

“What?”

“You want to go with me?”

“It was just a suggestion.”

She shook her head. “Sherlock…I think I know what you’re doing. And I wish you’d stop.”

“What am I doing?”

“You feel guilty, so you are trying to make it up to me.”

“No…” he shook his head.

“Look, I forgive you, ok? Yes. It was awful, but so is this.”

His mouth fell open. He looked around…just a block from Baker Street. “Come with me,” and he took her hand.

“Sherlock…my appointment!”

“Not now,” and they made it to 221. He led her downstairs, and walked inside. “Look, I know that was rather untoward, and I’m not trying to order you around, but I also didn’t want to discuss this in the middle of the street.”

She crossed her arms. “You sure you’re not trying to order me around? Because I’m pretty sure you just manhandled me into your flat while telling me that my appointment could wait.”

“Well, yes…”

She slammed the door shut. “This isn't healthy, Sherlock. I can’t allow you to…”

“Please. Give me five minutes. Please,” he took his coat off, and rubbed his face with his unwrapped hand. He went to the kitchen and poured some water. 

“Five.”

He nodded, drank, “Would you like some?”

She shook her head ‘no’.

…and how was he supposed to do this? “Look. I know how this looks, and I don't blame you. But I’m starting from scratch here. And I’m honestly trying. Really trying. And I’m going to make some mistakes…but if you could be patient, I promise, I won’t ever hurt you like that again.”

“Yes…I see that you’re trying…”

“Thank you,” he sighed. 

She nodded and smiled. “Well. I’ll be going, then.”

“Of course,” he returned her smile. “Oh! Just one more thing.”

She turned, just as she was about to leave. “What?”  “What’s your favorite color?”

She shook her head. “Yellow,” she replied with a smirk.

He nodded…his brow furrowed…he closed his eyes…and he fell, smacking his forehead on the corner of the countertop. 

 

He pointed the pistol towards the smiley face and – without even looking in that direction – fired two shots at it. There were already two bullet holes in the wall where the two eyes had been sprayed, and the two new bullets have impacted the curve of the smile. Sherlock turned his head to look at the face and fires a third shot which either misses the smile or was deliberately aimed to form a ‘nose’ for the face.  
“No, there’s a head in the fridge,” said John.  
“Yes.”  
“A bloody head!”   
“Well, where else was I supposed to put it?” yelled Sherlock. “You don’t mind, do you? I got it from Bart’s morgue.”  
And Sherlock grinned over-dramatically at the bullet-riddled smiley face, then sighed and turned his head to the front just as a massive explosion went off in the street behind him.

 

“Sherlock!” 

He was being held…someone was holding his head…gentle fingers were caressing his forehead. 

“Sherlock…” 

He opened his eyes and saw her face swim to clarity. He attempted to raise his hand, but it felt too heavy. “Am I smiling?”

“What?”

“Smiling?” for he thought that even though his head was split in half, he was blissfully happy here, in her lap. 

“N…well,” she looked at him crookedly. “Yeah. I suppose you are. Here…can you sit up?”

“I can fly.”

“No you can’t, Sherlock. You hit your head so hard…and you’re covered in blood. I need to clean it up. If you can't move, I’ll just get you a pillow.”

“John,” he said suddenly and desperately. He needed to speak with him.

“No,” she sighed, setting his head gingerly down. “Molly.”

…and he felt his stomach…his head was going to be split in two…he tried getting to his feet…

“No…Sherlock…you can’t get up yet…” she tried to dissuade him…

“Toilet…” as he fought to stand.

“Oh my god. You’re concussed…” and she helped him to his feet. “Come on, then…” and she helped him across the room. 

He was leaning on her a bit, and began to wretch…he reached the bathroom, and slammed the door closed. 

He collapsed in front of the toilet and emptied his stomach. Good god, he was an absolute mess. He heard her talking on the phone, and he slumped on the floor, leaning against the wall. He wondered if this is what Moriarty meant in his dream by “hitting bottom.” A bloody head, and a propensity towards vomiting. 

…sitting on the floor of the loo, listening to the love of his life talk to his best friend about why she thinks he’s dying. Or going completely bonkers. 

Maybe he was. 

He sighed, and touched his forehead…yep. Blood. He tried to stand, but was too dizzy…and gave up. 

He needed help, but couldn’t call for her. He’d throw up again.

What a cock up. He couldn’t imagine that every relationship was like this…the human race would die out. So much pain…

His head thudded against the wall.

“Sherlock? Are you ok?”

“Could you help me get up, please?” thank god she was there.

The door opened and she turned the light on. “Wow,” she shook her head as she helped him to stand. “Here,” she lowered the toilet lid and had him sit. He watched as she wetted a cloth, wrung it out, and came over to him…she was so close…he was inches away from her breasts…and she wiped the blood from his forehead. “You might require a few stitches.”

His heart was pounding, and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at her, so incredibly close like that…”Oh really?” his voice cracked.

“Yeah…but…” she prodded his head. “Maybe not.”

He touched his forehead, wincing…”Hurts a bit.”

“Oh! Sorry,” she laughed. “So…what happened, Sherlock?” she rinsed out the rag. “You were standing there, and then you were on the floor.”

God, please come over again…”I thought of something, and it was rather shocking.” 

She stood in front of him once more, drying off the wet…and he closed his eyes, relishing her touch. “Do you have a butterfly bandage?”  

“Hm?” he was dazed from her ministrations.

“Butterfly bandage. It bled a lot because it’s a head wound. It’s actually not as bad as I thought,” and she rummaged through his medicine cabinet. “You don't have much here. I can run and get something.”

“But your appointment…”

“I rescheduled it for tomorrow. And John is on his way.”

He nodded. “You shouldn't have cancelled.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what I was going to have done, anyway. Just something a bit different,” she shrugged.

“How different?” 

“Dunno,” and she threw the dirty cloth into the basket. “Come on, let’s get you to the sofa,” and she helped him up. “I need to do concussion protocol,” she chuckled.

“I’m not concussed…” as she lowered him to the sofa.

“Well, you hit your head pretty damn hard, and you vomited. I would be pretty stupid not to at least rule it out,” and she sat next to him, leaned over…checked his eyes, and then got up and turned the lights out. 

He swallowed…he felt his breath coming quick as she took out her phone and turned the flashlight on. 

She was checking his pupils’ reaction to light…but if he leaned up just a touch, he could take her lips in his…

“No…I think that you’re ok…” and she turned the flashlight off. 

It was the afternoon, but the flat was rather dim.

Basement flat. 

“Thank you,” he said, and he took her hand. 

“Sure,” she shrugged, and looked at him. 

His gaze was intense…he felt the energy then, and he knew that if he pulled her even slightly toward him, he could kiss her…

She swallowed. 

The door opened, and she pulled away. 

“Oh! I…are you all right…?” John looked from her to Sherlock.

“He’s fine,” and she stood. “I’ll just run and get some ointment and bandages.” She smiled and nodded at John. “Be right back,” and she left.

“So…what happened?” he went and pulled the armchair closer to the sofa. “Do I want to know?”

“I hit my head.”

“Right. Yep. That’s what Mol…”

“Ah ah!” he held up his hand.

“For fuck sake, Sherlock. Will you please get yourself together?”

“I’m attempting to, John.”

“You’re doing a bang up job, mate.”

Sherlock sighed. He tried to sit up, which he did, without much assistance. “We went for coffee. She was walking me home, and accused me of feeling guilty and that was why I’m being so nice to her. I was not about to have that conversation in public, so I brought her here, we made up… I asked her what her favorite color was, and she said ‘yellow.’ And I fainted. And when I woke, she said her own name, which made me vomit. And here I am.”

“I don’t get it…yellow?”

He sighed even louder. “I went to my mind palace last night. Mycroft told me that she was always there…that my heart wouldn't allow me to forget her, despite what my brain attempted.”

“I still don’t…”

“How many years ago was this?” he looked to the ceiling. “I don’t know. Some time ago…do you recall the severed head I had in the fridge?”

“The one that scarred me for life?” he replied, sarcastically.

“That’s it. I got it from Bart’s. From Mol…from her. She was telling me that night about her weekend plans, and I recall paying very close attention. She talked about this man she had met…Jim from…”

“…IT,” John supplied.

“Moriarty. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. But I left feeling profoundly annoyed that I had to listen to her drone on and on about this Jim fellow. I went home, thinking about how happy she was, and how excited…”

“…and you were jealous.”

He nodded, and shrugged. “I recall seeing the yellow paint spray can, and spray-painting the image of the smily face, thinking of her. Her and her happiness…and realizing I would never have that. And then I shot at it, attempting to stamp it out of existence.”

“You were in a horrible mood…I remember.”

“Always there…” Sherlock said. “She was always there.”

“My god, Sherlock. Right in front of your bloody face,” he paused. “So…how are things going now?”

“No idea.”

“You must have some…”

“It’s going painfully. Everything is painful. Not only am I quite literally beating myself up, but these baby steps are infuriating. And then…” he pointed to the loo. “And then, she’s inches from me…I almost had to ask her to leave so that I could take care of myself.”

“I…” and John’s eyes grew wide. “Wow. Too much of a visual, there.”

“I don’t know what to do. It’s maddening. She just…she’s so…”

“Fragile?”

He glared at him. “So this is my fault?”

“Well, yeah. It is, rather. Come on, Sherlock. You did this. You need to undo it.”

He sighed and laid back on the sofa. “Why can’t she just come back here, run over and into my arms, tell me that she loves me, and I take her to bed? Isn’t that how this works?”

“Ah…no. No, that never happens.”

“Well, it should. Someone should see to it.”

John laughed. “So…what should I do? Do you want me to stay when she gets back, or should I head out?”

“How about if she comes over and declares her love, you leave? Otherwise, she will probably not be staying, as she has spent almost the whole of her day with me. And then you can stay for a bit while I make certain that I can get up and down without much dizziness.”

“Right. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

And the door opened. “How’re things?” she asked, and handed the bag to John. 

  “Good. He’s feeling better.”

“They would be much better if I were in charge of happy endings,” he smirked at John…

…who rolled his eyes.

“I don’t…” she began.

“Doesn’t matter. Thank you, Mol…ah…” John looked at Sherlock. “Thanks. I’ve got this.”

She nodded. “Ok. Well…I’ll be going then.”

“I’ll text you tomorrow…” Sherlock said, his face hinting at some nerves. 

“You don’t have to,” she said, closing the door.

“I know, but I want to.”

“Ok,” she smiled, and left.

“You’re hilarious,” John laughed.

“Nothing funny about this. Believe me. I’ve tried to discover something.”

“Well, maybe not to you, but to a casual viewer of your life, this is the cherry on top of it all,” and he put the bandage on his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Script from "The Great Game" taken from:  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html


	8. chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a bit of liberty with the canon. Please forgive me that.

He was rinsing his burned left hand under the sink…it was peeling. This was a good sign. Maybe he could go without wrapping it up that day.

He had slept rather well, no dreams, and otherwise uninterrupted. 

Sherlock looked at the gash on his head. That wasn’t looking too good. Bit bruised, and the wound was deep. But John assured him no stitches were required, so he was going with that. 

He scratched his hand some more and applied some lotion. 

“Hoo hoo!”

“Morning Mrs Hudson,” he said, coming out of the loo. 

She set the tea down and smiled. “Sherlock! What happened to your head?”

“I fell,” and he poured some tea.

“Fell? At your age?”

“Fainted, actually,” and he sat.

“Oh dear,” she shook her head, features laced with concern. “You probably need a therapist, Sherlock. Talk to someone who can help you sort things out.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re falling apart.”  “That’s a bit dramatic,” he sipped.

“Can you say her name?”

His mouth set. 

And she folded her arms. “That’s not normal, Sherlock. I’ve been in love, and that’s not something I’ve ever experienced.”

“Well, seeing as how I’m rather extraordinary…” he smiled.

“Oh tosh. Go talk to someone,” she dismissed him with a wave.

“Good morning Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft announced his presence. 

“Morning Mycroft,” and she stopped. “He’s not well…you should try to convince him to seek a therapist.”

Mycroft did a double take, then nodded. “Well, Sherlock,” and he set his umbrella down, took off his coat. “How are things?” and he saw his forehead. “What happened to your head?”

He sighed. “I fell.”

He nodded and sat across from him in John’s chair. 

Sherlock had his legs crossed, and was staring into his cup. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I take it nothing is currently happening where Miss Hooper is concerned. Save, perhaps, that massive gash on your forehead.”

“Well, I wouldn't say nothing. But no, nothing of consequence,” and he looked at his brother, who appeared to be worried. “I’m fine, Mycroft.”

“This is unchartered territory for you. You may need some guidance.”

“From you?” he laughed.

“Hardly. But someone other than John Watson.”

“John is fine. He understands the complexity of the situation. He’s been there since nearly the beginning of this mess.”

“Love is a mess? I don’t think that you’re doing this right.”

Sherlock sighed. “Why are you here? I really would rather not discuss this at present.”

“I’m concerned. And seeing as how I can offer little in terms of practical advice, I think that perhaps we should find someone who can.”

“Mrs Hudson is a master of delicacy and stealth.”

“Sherlock…you’ve never been in love, and you discovered your feelings under the most violent and stressful of circumstances. And now, it appears that you are physically and psychologically punishing yourself. This isn't normal.”

“How would you know what’s normal regarding love?”

He dropped his gaze. “You have a point, however…”

“No. No ‘however’. I’ve treated her horribly almost the entire time I’ve known her, and it’s more than me just torturing myself. In fact, I don’t know that that what this is at all. This is my physical self taking over my sensibilities after my brain has held them for so long. I understand what is happening. And I’m discovering things along the way.”

“I’m merely concerned.”

“Thank you. I’m fine,” he nodded. “Tea?”

He nodded. “Are we seeing Euros this Saturday?”

“Of course. Every other weekend, as we promised,” and he poured Mycroft some tea.

“Is that wise, considering?”

He shrugged. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Sherlock…have you told Miss Hooper that you were telling her the truth in that cell?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“You should, before you see Euros. She may attempt…”

“She won’t.”

“You cannot be certain. You’ve seen her. She’s capable of anything. She may convince you that you aren’t in love with her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“…because I witnessed it, Sherlock. I never thought I would, but I did. And though I cannot understand it, I think it’s important that you pursue it,” he sat back.

“Well, what do you think I’m doing? It isn’t easy, you know. She doesn’t believe me.”

“You’re a right mess, brother mine. But perhaps I can offer you something…cash in on a favor,” Mycroft appeared to be reflective. 

“What do you mean?” he replied, with caution and doubt laced in his voice.

“The two of you require some time alone, unencumbered by daily interference. There is a place, not terribly far from London, that an acquaintance of mine has offered on numerous occasions to let. Just for a weekend, mind,” he twirled his umbrella. 

“You think that I should take her away on a weekend holiday? Mycroft, she would never agree to it.”

“Well, perhaps I could arrange things wherein she believes it’s just the thing, an innocent suggestion, and then you pop by. She needs to not be able to escape you…make her talk to you. And if she hates you after that, then give her up,” he leaned forward, a bit smug.

“So much for not offering any practical advice,” Sherlock shook his head. “I won't trick her. That’s one of the reasons she hates me. And what’s more, she does talk with me. I just either end up with a massive head wound or emptying my coffee in the toilet.”

Mycroft raised his brows and shrugged. “As you like.”

“Well, if that’s all…”

“Yes, best be off. You will call if you require anything, or if any situation changes,” he stood.

“Of course. If I require someone to scare Rosie, I’ll be certain to call,” Sherlock smiled.

Mycroft smiled at him and left with a nod.

And a heavy sigh escaped his mouth. He wondered just how much more he might discover about his feelings that he didn't know.

He wondered about why and how John assumed much about his heart.  It was funny that John surmised he was in love with Irene Adler. Sex and love were so often confused…

But there was no denying that he became aroused when he was so close to her yesterday. Perhaps there was a link.

He had no practical information, since this was his first time in love, and had only a couple of sexual partners.

He was so new to all of it! And ordinarily, he would speak to her about things…but he couldn’t now.

He even told her about the Woman. 

Sherlock thought about that. He hadn’t told John, but he told her…  
Was he trying to make her jealous?

Probably, given everything he had discovered of late.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. His head hurt…

He got up and went to the loo and obtained some aspirin, and he looked at himself. “You aren’t worth her, you know,” he paused. “But maybe you don’t need to be…maybe you just need to accept her love…” He swallowed. 

He hadn’t. He denied it all these years. Ignored it. Pretended that he didn’t know that she was in love with him, when he knew…and she knew that he knew. It was this sort of monstrous dance they did…denying what everyone knew.   Except nobody knew, not even him, how he reciprocated. It was almost funny…poor little pathologist, pining away in a dark morgue for an ass of a detective, and he’d sweep in and woo her, get her to bend the rules…

…until they became friends, and he realized that she was more than just a means to an end. And he honestly cared about her as a person. In fact, he’d venture that he never cared for anyone the way he cared for her, even before he realized he was in love with her. 

But that thing remained unsaid. She never said it…he wouldn't allow her to.

Until he tore it from her heart and demanded that she confess. 

He was so comfortable with her! Never had he taken anyone so much for granted. And that was saying something.

He left the loo and found his phone. 

Eleven in the morning. He sighed…checked his emails. There was a woman looking for a missing diamond necklace in South London…

Boring.

But, better than sitting around all day. 

 

“When is B going to be ready?” John sat in his chair following a day of running around London, catching up with bank manager who’d swindled his client’s jewelry. Sherlock had made a decent income from it, though. So it was worth it. 

“About three weeks, I think,” he scrolled through his messages. 

“No word from her?” he was hesitant in his delivery. 

“No.”

“You did say you'd text her…”

“Mm…yes,” they hadn’t spoken about her directly. It was a subject they had danced around but were never explicit about. “I suppose I did.”

“You aren’t cross are you? Or losing interest?”

Sherlock looked at him. “What? Of course not. I’m simply trying to fill my time with something other than endless thoughts about her. Perseverating on one Miss Hooper, while having its advantages,” he sat, “…doesn’t pay the bills.”

“You can say, ‘Miss Hooper’? Are you getting better?”

“No. And I only just discovered that about her surname.”

He nodded. “Well…are you going to text her?”

“What do you suggest I say?”

“How about…Hi?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “I delete texts that start, ‘Hi.’”

“Well, you tell me then,” he paused. “Hang on. You delete….I start my texts that way.”

“Oh really?” and he turned his attention to his phone again. He was smirking…

Are you home from work yet? SH

Send.

“Is that why you never answer my bloody texts? Oh my god,” he shook his head. “You are a real…”

“Sh!” he held his hand up. “She’s replying.”

Yes. Just. MH

“John, she’s home.”

“Fantastic,” he looked at Sherlock, who returned the look with anxious eyes. “Well…?”

“Well,” and he looked back at the phone. “Should I suggest that I go over? Or she here? Or…”

“What’s the endgame?”

“Nakedness.”

“Shut up oh my god…” and John rubbed his eyes. 

“Wait…she’s texting again…” 

I’m not feeling up to doing anything, Sherlock. So, if there was something particular you wanted…MH

“She’s having a bad day,” and he looked at John. “Though she may just be tired,” he paused. “I wonder if she went to her hair appointment…”

  “She had a hair appointment?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yesterday, which she cancelled, because I can’t stand upright,” and he sat back. “Is love always like this? Second guessing, knowing innocuous details about their lives that one ordinarily wouldn't care the least about?”

“Mm…ya. Pretty much.”

“Wonderful,” but he began typing back.

All right. I could stop by for a bit, or just speak to you tomorrow. Are you working? SH

“What did you say?” John asked, craning his neck.

“I suggested that I stop over. Or, alternatively, speak to her tomorrow.”

“You sure sound like a boyfriend,” John smiled.

“Retract that immediately,” he stared at the phone. 

“What? Isn't that what you’ll be? Best get used to it, Sherlock.”

“I will not be referred to as a ‘boyfriend’ I’ll be…” he appeared ruminative. 

John sat with his eyebrows raised in question. 

“…her copain.”

“Is that French?” he said with some disdain.

“Yes…” there was no responding text. “She isn't answering, John.” 

“Well, maybe she’s in the bath.”

Sherlock stood. “I should go. Surprise her,” and he shoved his phone in his pocket.

“Sherlock, wait! Just because she’s naked now doesn’t meant that she will be when you get there.”

“I should hurry, then,” and he went to the door.

John took his elbow. “Sherlock, we don’t even know if that’s what she’s doing. Maybe she just went to bed because she’s tired. Maybe she turned her phone off because she’s watching telly. There are a million things she could be doing.”

“This is Mol…” and he felt ill…his head hurt…he put his fingers to his temples and swallowed. Start again…”Think about who we are talking about,” and he looked up at John. “There are a few dozen things she could be doing,” he paused. “Now, if I get over there in time, we could add some things to that list pretty quickly.”

“You know, I’m not used to these kinds of conversations with you, mate. And to be so full on with them…it’s a bit unsettling. Just letting you know,” and he walked away and sat. 

“I’m sorry you never thought of me as a person who had sexual urges, but I am,” he sighed. “You’re right though. It wouldn't do to go over there unasked. Not again, at any rate,” and he took off his coat and sat. 

“She’s still hurt, Sherlock. It’s doubtful that she wants even to see you, let alone sleep with you.”

Sherlock’s gaze fell just as his text rang out. He smiled. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes,” he looked at John. 

“You know, I give up. I just…you’re not that cool, you know. No matter what you tell yourself. You’re a right mess. Look at your head,” he pointed. “And she’s a doctor, so just have her patch you up next time.”

“Don’t be hurt,” he smiled.

“I’m not hurt. I’m just baffled by her ability to simply fall for your charms every time,” and he walked to the door.

“You think I’m charming…?”

…and John slammed the door.

After he finished laughing…All right. She’d be there in twenty minutes…

He looked around, and began tidying up the kitchen. 

Though John was likely right, there would be no sex had that evening, it would probably be unbearably painful, if anything…he still looked at himself in the glass, and made certain that his breath didn’t smell. 

Before long, he heard her knock, and he went to the door to let her in. 

…and there she was, in her long scarf and ponytail. She smiled a bit hesitantly, “Thanks for letting me come over.”

“You’re always welcome,” and he stepped aside. 

“It’s time we had a talk, Sherlock,” she took off her jacket and scarf. “A real talk, about what is going on.”

“All right,” he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

She appeared reticent, but then nodded. “Thanks.”

He was glad of it, for he felt as though he could use one…”Here,” and he handed her one, and sipped his own. “Have a seat.”

She sat down. “Sherlock, there’s so much that I want to say to you, that I hardly know where to begin.”

“How about you start wherever you feel inclined, and I won’t say a thing until you’re finished.”

“Really?” she almost whispered. 

“Really,” he nodded.

She swallowed. “Do you know when I started falling in love with you?”

He looked at her. 

“No. Neither do I,” and she sipped. “But it’s been as real to me as anything. I love Sherlock Holmes. That’s a fact undeniable, and yet I spent the last…what? Eight years? Denying it. Or hiding it. Whatever…” she folded her hands. “And you have known this fact about me, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen you use and exploit it to your advantage, I’ve seen you dismiss it outright. I’ve seen you make fun of me for it, or for attempting to forget you. It’s almost as though you don’t want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me, either.  
Now, I know you're a child. But that doesn’t mean that I get to take abuse from you. Up until now, I wouldn't have called it abuse. I’d have said mistreated or neglected, but never abused. But that call…” she closed her eyes. “That was about the very worst thing anyone has ever done to me. And I know…I know that you were doing it because my flat may or may not have contained explosives. I understand that, so I’m not cross. Not really. I’m devastated. And there are so many reasons why…” she took a long breath and another sip. “I’m devastated because you made me pretend I had something I’d never had, nor ever will. And that hurt, Sherlock. I’m devastated because the cruelty came so natural to you. And it was directed at me. I’m devastated because now, now you’re doing these nice things, and I know that once I forgive you for everything, you'll think it’s all ok, and just start right up again. And I’ll probably let you, because that’s what you do when you love Sherlock Holmes.  
I’m devastated because I feel as though I’ll never be the same. But I won't ever let you do anything like that again. You won't ever hurt me like that... But it doesn't matter. Because I don't think that you care," she finished, a tear falling down her cheek. 

“Are you finished?” he asked, tears in his own eyes.

She nodded, and sat back. “Though I can’t imagine what you’ll say in response to all that.”

He swallowed. “How about, I love you?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that there is a suggestive bit at the end. Nothing too explicit.

Her face fell as her expression slowly went from shock to contempt. She appeared as though she was shaking.

“Mol…?”

“How dare you,” she hissed, and stood. “How could you? Were you listening at all?” she cried.

He stood now. “I heard every word.”

“Then…” and hot, angry tears streamed down her face. “You…” she covered her face with shaking hands and sobbed. “You hate me, don’t you?” 

“Of course not. Did you hear what I said?”

And she lowered her hands. “Why are you doing this to me, Sherlock? I thought that we were friends.”

He took a deep breath, “Molly,” he closed his eyes, feeling the vertigo and the pain in his head, and willed himself to stay standing. “Please, sit down. Please…give me ten minutes. And if you despise me you can leave and I will never bother you again. I won’t go into the morgue…I won’t text you. But just…listen.”

“I shouldn’t, you know. I should leave and never look at you again,” she held herself, not looking at him, even now.

…and the thought of her doing that made him desperate, and he almost lashed out, for desperation often incited rage in him. But he leveled himself…balled his fists and set his mouth…”I understand why you would want to do that, I…” he cleared his throat. “But I implore you to sit. Just ten minutes, please…” he desperately wanted to lift her chin so that he could force her to look at him. 

But he didn’t.

And she did not look at him, but sat, and drank the rest of her wine. 

He rubbed his face with his hands and then ran them through his hair.

This might be the most important speech he ever gave. He had better choose what he says, and how he says it, with some care.

And this time, extemporaneous…no notes.

He sat. Then stood. Then drank the rest of his own wine. 

And now, she was looking at him…

And time was ticking…

Best start from the beginning. “You recall me telling you the other day that I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up?” and his hands went behind his back and he started to pace.

She nodded.

“I never really understood the significance of that dream until very, very recently. You see, Euros wasn’t the only thing I couldn't remember,” and he paused. “I recall a lovely Irish setter we had when I was a child…I recall playing with him, and laughing…some of my fondest recollections are of that red dog. And Mycroft…he never cared for Redbeard,” Sherlock poured more wine and stood at the counter for a moment. “Apparently, neither did Euros,” he drank the whole of it. “She drowned him, Redbeard…and I never was the same.”

“Oh my god.”

“Quite,” and he began to pace again. “Except that Redbeard wasn’t a dog at all. He was Victor, my best friend.”

“Your best…?”   
“Friend. Yes. A little boy named Victor Trevor. Now, we can examine why Euros did this, but I can safely surmise that it was done mostly out of jealousy. She wanted to play, and we did not let her. Hardly a valid reason, but then, she’s criminally insane,” he cleared his throat and sat across from her. “I’m telling you this because it is imperative that you understand…I changed my memories because they were too painful. But I never stopped understanding that those who I became close with could die.”

She was crying…she wiped her face and nodded.

“I did not allow myself to have a friend until I met John. I had intercourse once or twice before I met the Woman. I never loved anyone…” he cleared his throat. “Until you,” and his gaze dropped. “I didn’t realize what was happening to me. I suppose I didn’t recognize it,” and he stood once more and paced. “But part of me did, so I protected you…from me. I wouldn't allow myself to admit anything, and my mind is so adept at this that my conscious self never had an inkling of my heart. I wore it like a badge,” he smiled, looking up and out of the window into the night. “I was above all of it. But in reality, “ and he looked at her. “I felt more than most, a sad sort of irony,” he smiled and walked over to her, then sat across once more. “But this is just background knowledge. A means to understand why I did this to you, very specifically…” he sighed and sat back, crossing his legs. “Do you recall the smily face that was spray painted in B, on the wall?”

She nodded, a bit dazed.

“I did that, in response to news of a man you were dating. Jim Moriarty. Do you remember when you came for Christmas drinks, gifts in hand, and I humiliated you?”

Her gaze fell.

“I was jealous…but I never recognized it, because I was afraid for you. My association was deadly,” he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, folded his hands. “Everything I did to you was a result of a war going on inside of me…the desire to keep you safe while I increasingly fell in love with you. And I suppose part of my maltreatment was anger directed toward you because of that.”

She wasn’t looking at him…her gaze was fixed on her hands, folded in her lap.

“Not really a good excuse,” he smiled, hoping for a reaction. He cleared his throat and stood when he received none. “Of course, Tom…” he winced. “I believe I almost had a stroke when I met him. And though I was high as a kite, I had the wherewithal to be elated when that ring was gone, convincing myself that I was pleased merely because he was an idiot and you are clever,” he began to pace again. “And on and on the charade went…until Euros saw what I never did, that no one did…and she used that against me. Of course I was terrified that you might die as a result of your being my friend. Of course I was desperate to save you. I never doubted that you meant a great deal to me…and I had relished in the fact that no one, not one of my enemies ever saw it. That somehow you had escaped their wrath and madness” he paused. “It was a stroke of genius, that you made me say it first,” he looked at her, and now she was looking back. “I never would have realized it had I not uttered it myself. Never would have admitted it had my own lips not formed the words…and then…they were said. And I meant it. And I couldn’t unsay it…and I wasn’t even certain that I wanted to,” he breathed the last. He cleared his throat. “And a rage and sorrow welled inside of me…something unlike I ever experienced. And I destroyed the room we were in when I spoke to you on the phone…I was furious with myself. Nothing I had ever done could equal what I had just done to you…and I loved you,” he went over and sat in his chair, a bit closer than the sofa was to her. “And now…with my feelings fully realized, I cannot even say your name without bodily revolt. With every understanding of my growing feeling, I hurt myself inadvertently,” and he pointed to his hand and his forehead. “If someone else utters your name, I experience vertigo and have even vomited…my heart will never allow me to forget you again. Never allow me to put you last…or even second…”

She was looking at him, crying in earnest.

He desperately wanted to go over to her…but he made himself stay put. He swallowed, his gaze dropped, and he leaned forward once more. “I know that I don’t deserve you. I know that nothing I have ever done has ever illustrated that I do. But yet you love me…inexplicably, you do,” he shrugged. “I discovered that I needed to just allow it and be happy, rather than try to prove anything to you. You know who I am. And yet you love me still,” he looked at her now. “But I have changed. I promise. I am fully aware of my heart now, and I would die for you if I had to. I don't know what I can offer, for I feel as though I’ve been stripped bare and there’s nothing left. But whatever I have is yours,” he stood. “However meager the offering, it belongs to you. Unfortunately, it always has,” he walked over to her and knelt before her. “I’m so sorry, Molly,” the pang this time was slighter, and he swallowed. “I’m so sorry that I hurt you,” he paused. “For these past eight years,” he shrugged. “If you can forgive me, I’ll make it up, for however long you’ll allow me to.”

She covered her face with her hands, and she appeared to be sobbing, though no sound escaped. 

He wasn’t sure what to do…he was still kneeling in front of her, “Molly?” dizzy…

Her hands fell. “I don’t know what to say,” she heaved. 

He got up and got her some water and tissues. Sherlock went over and handed them to her, and knelt in front of her once more. “You don’t need to say anything, except if you forgive me or not.”

Molly drank the water and wiped her face. She set the things down, all the while not looking at him. “I need to say…” she swallowed. “I owe you….”

He placed his finger on her lips. “You owe me absolutely nothing,” and his finger graced over her lower lip, his eyes fixed upon them. He closed his eyes and took his hand away. He rocked back and stood, putting his hands in his pockets. “But I need to know if I have your forgiveness.”

“Of course you do,” and she stood as well. 

“Good,” he nodded, smiling slightly. “Well…”

And Molly launched herself to him, taking his mouth hungrily in hers. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and though he was shocked slightly, he took his hands out of his pockets and ran his hands up her sides to her head, which he cradled…the kiss went very deep quite fast. He moaned a touch, as lips, tongues, and teeth met over and over again…he pressed himself into her, Molly’s tiny frame, and she whimpered. “Molly…” he whispered as he moved to her neck. She was on her tiptoes, grasping his shoulders for purchase. And then back again…”I’d have you here on this floor now if you’ll allow it…” he said into her mouth. 

And she laughed a touch, pulling away. 

He heaved, reaching for her…eyes wide, pupils blown in desire. 

“I…” she wrapped her arms around herself. 

“Too much?” he asked, stepping back. 

“Too soon,” she smiled. “I…I need a day or two, Sherlock. It’s so much…information…and I’m afraid that if we just…”

“Shag on my basement flat floor…” he supplied.

She nodded, blushing only slightly. “I just need a little bit of time. I hope you understand.”

“No,” he said resolutely, but then smiled. “Considering, the cement of the floor would probably not be great for our knees…” and he went to her, touching her cheek. “But rest assured, Molly Hooper, this has been years in the waiting. Prepare to be ravished,” he placed a delicate kiss to her mouth, and she squeaked. “Oh, I do love that noise,” he sighed. 

“It’s strange,” she began as he pulled away, a blush and a smile on her face. “Knowing you’re capable of this.”

“Of what?”

“Ah…all of it…” she shrugged. “I knew that you weren't the man you pretended to be, but I also never thought…” she paused. “It gave me comfort, knowing that you’d never love anyone. That you weren't built for romantic love. Which is why, though it hurt when you started seeing Irene once a year…”

He winced.

“…it was never shattering. I knew you wouldn't love her,” she smiled at him. “But you are, Sherlock. Quite capable, actually. And what’s more, you love me…” she swallowed. “It’s incredible, really.”

“Well, I suppose it’s poetic justice, or some such thing. My love for you. But I’m sincere, and I…I can wait. Sex, though enjoyable, was never high on my list of necessities,” he paused, his eyes glancing over her body. “Though I may have underestimated that as well,” he swallowed. 

“I should go,” she said, not looking away from him.

“Yes, you should,” his gaze was earnest.

And she tore her eyes from him and retrieved her coat and scarf.

“What is your work schedule?” he asked her, helping her with her coat (though he was only trying to touch her more).

“I…ah…I work overnight tomorrow. Then off two consecutives.”

Her back was to him, his hands still on her shoulders…he could smell her slight perfume, the heat from her body…He leaned over and kissed the turn of her ear. “I’ll text you tomorrow,” he whispered. 

She staggered out a breath. “Ok,” and she zipped up her coat. 

“Goodnight, Molly Hooper,” and he backed away.

“Goodnight Sherlock,” and she smiled, then left with a small click of the door.

He noted that there was only a very slight pang in his stomach when he said her name now, and thought that he had appeased his heart enough to warrant the change. 

He went to the loo to wash his face and change…and he looked at the wound on his forehead. Better. Much. And he changed the dressing and took out his mobile. 

He sighed and went to the bedroom, looking at emails, trying to decide what he would do the next day. 

 

A few hours later, he was still awake. She hadn’t texted him that she had made it home, but then, he hadn’t thought to ask. She was likely asleep…

But, he thought, sending her a text now so that she might see it in the morning…he smiled.

I can’t sleep. But I’m not sorry. I love you.

Send.

If she didn’t know who that was from…

…and a response was being typed.

'Neither can I. And I love you.'

His heart sped up. 

'I feel as though we should take advantage of this.'

Send.

'What do you suggest?'

He swallowed. 

'A sort of truth or dare. Do you recall that game, Molly?'

Send.

'Yes…but if this is a stupid game, it’s my turn to make the rules. Wouldn't you agree that that’s fair?'

Oh…Miss Hooper. You are a vixen. He smiled…he liked this side of her.

'Completely fair. I’m at your mercy.'

Send.

'Good. Now, you can ask any question you like, and I need to answer truthfully. But I don’t ask anything, and everything you say must be in the form of a question. Neither of us will win. But neither will lose, either, if we do this correctly and can divine information that will…help us…;)'

He looked at her text. What was she talking about? She was able to express herself with the written word.

'You should not be so severe on yourself, Molly. You can write fine.'

Send.

'Not a question.'

He laughed. All right…obvious.

'Are you wearing anything?'

Send.

'Yes.'

She wasn’t playing where she indulges any information…

'What are you wearing?'

Send.

'Black nightgown. Hits my knee.'

He swallowed.

'Underpants?'

Send.

'Nope.'

“Oh my god…” and he felt himself stir.

'Is this for easy access, or for comfort only?'

Send.

'Well, comfort I’d say. Haven’t had an active sex life in a while, and though I occasionally masturbate, it isn't enough that I need to not wear pants.'

Jesus christ. He swallowed, and he thought of her bedroom…queen sized bed. Lavender walls. Those tee shirt sheets…And how, when he would need to use her flat as a bolthole, he’d sleep there, and could smell her in the sheets…he cleared his throat.

'Can I just call?'

Send. He rather wanted to hear her voice.

'Nope. You’re almost there.'

And he thought that he may be…

'Are you thinking about me?'

Send.

'Yes'

'And what am I doing?'

Send.

'You’re on top of me, and you’re kissing my neck…and you’re inside, quite deep…my legs are wrapped around you…'

He moaned. And he finished himself. It took but a minute, and he looked at his phone, a smile on his face. 

'Sorry Molly. I guess I was closer than I realized.'

Send.

'I’m sorry I didn’t finish that text. I dropped my phone…;)'

Good god. He cleared his throat.

'Well, I’ll just text you in …'

He stopped.

Then began again.

'I’ll be in touch at some point tomorrow. Go to sleep.' 

Send.

And she didn’t respond. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and slept heavily, holding the pillow and smiling the entire night.


	10. Chapter 10

'They keep looking over here. It's hilarious.'

Send.

'Aren't you supposed to be solving a murder?'

'Solved it. I'm just here laughing at John and Greg as they wonder at my texting you.'

Send.

'Sherlock. You need to stop. Just go over and tell them who to arrest…naughty.'

He smiled broadly.

'Perhaps a punishment is in order…'

Send.

'Oh my god just stop and tell Greg who to arrest.'

'Oh all right. I suppose it's enough. I'll speak to you later.'

Send.

He cleared his throat and put the phone away. He walked over to the body on the ground where Greg and John were standing.

"Decided to join us?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled, and put his hands in his pockets.

"Never mind. Can you just tell me who did it?" Lestrade sighed. "I need to get on with it."

"No one."

"What?" John and Greg both replied.

Sherlock smiled even more broadly…"The markings on his wrists were not made by a rope, they are old scars from him cutting himself, and then reopened. Probably because he became suicidal once more. His coloring is off," and he pointed to the man's face. "Not from being fished from the river, but from years of alcohol abuse. He was alive not two hours ago, and due to the dramatic and very sudden drop in temperature, his skin congealed in an odd way, causing a look of having been in water longer than he was. He disappeared on a drunken binge, depressed…and fell, accidentally, into the Thames. No one needs to be arrested," he backed away.

"There," said John. "Was that too difficult?"

"No, and neither was it urgent, which is why I was texting Molly," he flipped up his collar, and began to walk away from the scene.

"So…you and Molly Hooper…" Greg began. "Pretty unbelievable."

"Is it?" he sounded vaguely annoyed.

"Well, yeah. She's loved you for years. And now, out of nowhere…"

"Hardly," and he stopped, the other two men with him. "This is hardly 'out of nowhere'…"

"Sherlock…" John's voice held a note of caution.

"Molly has been an important part of my life for years. You know this. Just because I wasn't aware of my depth of regard doesn't mean that I didn't care for her. And sex and the like merely makes our friendship, or relationship, or whatever rubbish term you wish to employ, more close. Nothing has changed, not really, except that I am in love with her. Why is this such a topic for discussion?"

"Because it's funny," Greg shrugged. He paused. "Did you have sex with her yet?" he smiled.

Sherlock's face set. "And what makes you think that I'd share that information with you, hm? I've seen the way you've ogled her arse over the years. You have had designs on her from a very early time."

"As a friend, Sherlock. You're with her, and that's all fine. I was just asking…" he turned to John. "Jealous bloke."

"Yeah," John said. "Sherlock…" he said, turning.

But the detective was hailing a cab. "Coming?" he yelled to John as he hopped in.

John got in and sighed. "Sherlock. You need to…"

"Please don't give me a lecture. Everyone is always offering me their opinions, which leads to a diatribe, which is endlessly boring."

"But you care about Greg, and he was only showing an interest in your life. You know, like a friend does."

"No. He was being a typical man wondering if I'd fucked my girlfriend whom he has been attracted to for years and desirous of sordid details to color his masturbatory session later."

John's mouth hung agape. "So…girlfriend…?"

"Oh for gods sake," and he took out his mobile.

John laughed. "I don't think you're being fair to him."

"I don't really care."

"Yes you do. You love Greg Lestrade. Now, you should apologize and be done with it."

Sherlock let out a soft sigh. "While you are undoubtedly right, I think I'll wait and let him stew a bit…" he smiled.

"Punishing him for being attracted to Molly?"

He shrugged and smirked.

"How very fifteen of you, Sherlock," he laughed.

"Speaking of, would you like to come to Sherrinford with my parents and Mycroft and I on Saturday?"

"What?"

"Well, I'm going to ask Molly as well, but I thought that perhaps you'd want to go."

"Why?"

"Because it's a family affair."

John smiled. "If Mrs Hudson is available to watch Rosie, sure. Thanks," he folded his hands. "So…when are you seeing her again?"

Sherlock put his phone away and leaned his head back. "It's ten now, is that right?"

John checked. "Ya…about that."

"Then…in approximately six hours, fifty four minutes."

"Wow."

Sherlock looked at him and smiled. "I'm going to try to get some sleep beforehand. But it's unlikely."

"Are you…meeting her after her shift?"

"Surprising her," and he looked out of the window.

"I'm so happy for you, mate. And if Mary were here…" his voice cracked a touch. "If she was, she'd be thrilled, too."

Sherlock looked at him, nodded, and squeezed John's hand.

 

She was cleaning some instruments and taking off her lab coat. And by god she was beautiful…even though her hair was somewhat askew…he hadn't thought to ask her about her appointment…and she appeared to be rather tired…

…and she hadn't spotted him, which was a marvel.

He was standing in the doorway to the lab, and was unintentionally obscured by shadow. He began to advance toward her while her back was to him, and was able to accomplish this with a remarkable amount of stealth.

He reached and touched her left shoulder …she squealed, jumping, turning to her left… and he reached around and kissed her right ear, holding out a yellow rose in front of her.

She looked at it, and took it, then turned and smiled at him. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, Molly," and he kissed her lips softly, noting the almost completely absent pang.

"What are you doing here? It's five in the morning."

"Walking you home," and he leaned against the counter next to her.

"What?" she smiled.

"I'm walking you home. Is that ok?"

"'Course it is. It's just so…such an unholy hour."

"Only if you make it so…" he winked. "Let's get your coat. It's cold out."

She blushed and nodded. "How did the case go?" and she put her coat on, still holding the rose.

"Obvious. Accidental death. No arrests necessary."

"Oh. I'm sorry," and they left Bart's.

"Well, you'll have those. How was work?"

"Fine. Mike is thinking of retiring," she paused. "I might look to find something else, too."

"What do you mean? I can't afford a stupid pathologist."

She laughed. "Well, these odd hours are beginning to take their toll. I feel it in my neck, and…"

He looked at her. She did…four…no. Five autopsies that night. "You're hurting?"

"Just my neck. From leaning over…?"

He nodded.

"But I've never worked regular hours. It might be nice to find something that offered that."

"Yes, I suppose…"

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't pout," and she nudged him with her arm.

He smiled at her. "I don't pout."

"Noooo…never," and they reached her flat.

He cleared his throat. "I was thinking…maybe I could make you some tea. And you could sleep…"

She shifted her weight. "Ok. Sounds lovely," and she opened her door.

They walked in and Molly hung hers and Sherlock's coats. She turned toward the kitchen…

"Go sit. I'll take care of it," and he started the kettle.

A bit shocked, she did as he bade. "Did you sleep at all? From when you solved the case until you left to meet me?"

"A bit," and he got out two cups, camomile tea bags, and began to cut some lemon. "Though not as well as after your texts," he smiled.

She pulled her legs up under her. "Yes. I fell right to sleep."

"Trust you for that," and the kettle screamed. He arranged the cups and brought them to her, sitting next to her. "How long do you sleep when you get home at this time, Molly?"

"Mm…" she sat back and put her feet on the coffee table in front of her. "About four or five hours, I guess," and she sipped.

He nodded. "And…I've something else to ask, but I don't want you to feel any pressure…"

"Ok…?" she looked at him.

"Saturday…you're not working, is that right?"

"Mm hm."

"Would you care to visit Euros with my parents and Mycroft and I? John will be going too, I think."

Molly swallowed. Her brow furrowed a bit.

"You can absolutely say no. I won't be cross," he offered.

"Can I…can I let you know?"

"Of course," and he sipped the tea, set it down, and reached around to her neck, which he began to rub.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes closing.

"Being an attentive…copain."

"A what?" she smiled, looking at him.

"French. You can look it up later."

Molly swallowed. "I wish you were always like this," she whispered.

"Well, I will certainly endeavor to be."

"Thanks," and she sat forward. "I'm good."

He folded his hands. "Aspirin?"

"No…just sleep," and she stood, and padded her way to the bedroom.

He swallowed…she was likely just tired, as she had said. But he couldn't help but feel as though she wasn't telling him something…

He grabbed a throw pillow and a blanket and laid on her sofa.

It was rather comfortable, but not so much so that he'd fall into a deep sleep.

…and three hours later he awoke. Sherlock got up, and went to the loo. He examined his forehead, which was now fully scabbed and a bit bruised still. And still, rather hideous. He used one of Molly's bandages and covered it, then went to her kitchen.

He hadn't allowed himself to think about the phone call when he was in the room a few hours ago, nor when he and John visited almost two weeks ago.

But in the silence and the light feathering in from the mid morning sun, he thought about it.

And he felt ill.

He really needed to alter his perspective on that, for it really was the catalyst to his current happiness.

He sighed, and began taking out some things.

About an hour later, the coffee was made, and the English breakfast was complete. Now, he only needed a Molly. He thought about knocking on her door…

"Sherlock?"

And there she was, wrapped in a dark purple dressing gown, her hair down, and slightly confused.

"Hello. Coffee?"

She nodded blankly. "What is all this?"

'It's…" he looked around. "Breakfast." …and indeed. Sausage, toast, beans, eggs…they were all there. "Do you enjoy breakfast?"

"Ah…yes. Yes, but…"

"Did I do something not right?" he scanned it. No, this was how mummy always did it.

"No. Everything is fine…Sherlock. This is just so…"

"So what?" his voice was full of nerves.

"Unbelievable? I mean…how have you never been in love? This is exactly the sort of thing you do when you're in love and the relationship is new."

"Well, maybe I'm just a natural. Stop overthinking, Molly."

"Oh that's rich, coming from you," and she sat at the table.

He smiled and sat across from her. "Yes…I suppose I have erred on the side of overly romantic and attentive this morning. The rose, breakfast, a neck rub…but I mean to prove myself utterly."

"Doing a smashing job," and she served him some beans.

"Good," and he sipped some coffee.

"Was Greg pleased when you solved it and his night was over?" she bit into some toast.

He cleared his throat. "I suppose so."

She looked at him crookedly. "Are you cross with Greg for some reason?"

"No," and he ate some of his eggs.

She stopped. "Sherlock…"

"Why is everyone so concerned about my being angry with Gregory Lestrade? He's a moron, just like the rest of Scotland Yard. Yes, he's my friend, but honestly."

"So you are cross."

He sighed and rubbed his face. "No. He just…"

She sipped her coffee, her eyebrows up…

"He…he's always…ogled you."

And she coughed, choking on the coffee.

"Molly!" he got up and patted her back, then got some water. "Drink this."

She downed it.

"You know, I'm beginning to think that we neither of us should drink coffee anymore. It never ends well," he said, sitting down again.

"Hang on. You're jealous of Greg Lestrade?"

"No!" but then he swallowed. "Maybe."

"Sherlock. You need to get a handle on that. Greg is my friend, too."

He nodded. "You're right. This is all just…it's so…"

"New and intense?" she smiled.

He nodded.

"S'okay. Just try, all right?"

Sherlock smiled. "So…day off. What would you like to do?"

She looked at the ceiling. "Let's replace your lab supplies for your kitchen."


	11. Chapter 11

They were in Progen Scientific, and he was looking at the flasks. “What do you think of this one?” he asked Molly.

“Glass seems to be too flimsy,” and she handed him another. “This one.”

He nodded, and put it in the basket. They had Bunsen Burners, goggles, a smallish microscope, and some petri dishes and slides. “I think that’s enough to get on with…” when he threw in some tongs. 

“It’s such a shame about your kitchen lab. You really had a wonderful thing going on there,” Molly said, in a wistful tone. 

“Well, it’ll be made better,” and he took money out to pay for the stuff. 

“How much longer until B is ready?”

“Mm…I’ve heard varying accounts ranging from three more weeks to six, depending on who I ask.”

“We should go back and set it up,” she smiled. “It’s not like your old flat will be ready in a few days, which would make any set up ridiculous.”

“This is what you want to do on your day off?” he held the door for her.

“It’s fun,” she smiled, shrugging. “I love my work,” and she zipped up her coat and walked down the street toward his flat.

He smiled as he caught up with her. “Have you given any thought to Saturday?”

“I have, yes. How long is this visit?”

“As long as you want it to be.”

“It’s strange, Sherlock. She knew who I was…she planted cameras in my flat…the police were there, you know,” she swallowed.

“I…” he hadn’t really thought about that, but it made sense. Of course they would need to collect evidence. Five people had died that day. “I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

“It was, yes. I just don’t want to meet your sister being angry at her,” she paused. “But then, there may never be a time I’m not until after I actually meet her.”

“I see your dilemma.”

They reached 221 Baker Street. “And she knows me. And I have no idea what she’s like, or anything. It’s all so strange.”

“I can tell you some things, if it’ll make it easier,” and he opened the door to C.

She began unpacking the supplies. “What things?”

“Well…” he ran the tap to warm the water. “She’s brilliant. And she plays the violin. Apparently, she taught me. She is insane, though, Molly. And she has this uncanny ability to sway and influence people to her benefit.”

“Why did she want to hurt you?” she took the microscope out of its box and plugged it in to charge.

“I don’t really think that’s what she was doing. She…she had set up various puzzles for me to…face. Not solve, necessarily. And she was trying to illustrate that I am a very emotional person, and that often clouds my ability to see what’s right in front of me,” he cleared his throat as he rinsed the glass. “There’s always one thing I miss, no matter how big or small the problem is.”

“Oh,” Molly started clearing off the island counter. “So…I was a puzzle?”

“Yes,” he replied softly.

“And I was the something that you missed…what were the things you didn’t, regarding…whatever the puzzle was you were solving that I’m a part of?”

“Difficult to say, but I’d venture John and Irene Adler,” and he dried his hands.

“People you care about.”

“Mm…bit more complicated than simply ‘people I care about.’ I care about people outside of you three…and I don’t know if ‘care’ is an apt word for how I feel about Irene… I suppose Euros wouldn’t harm Mycroft, not really. And Jim Moriarty had already threatened Greg and Mrs Hudson. And John is always there…”

“Yes he is,” she said. “And what happened?”

“You heard it.”

“No. I want to know what happened to you. I know what happened to me.”

“Ah…” he said, nodding. He let out a soft sigh and sat in his chair. He closed his eyes. “There was a maze of cells. And the first cell held us captive, with a gun and the director of the asylum. Euros had kidnapped his wife, and threatened to shoot her if either Mycroft or John didn’t kill him first,” he opened his eyes, and Molly was sitting across from him, in John’s chair, rapt. “Neither of them could do it, so he killed himself, and then she killed his wife…we were watching her on television screens placed throughout the facility.”

“But…how is that possible? She took it over?”

He nodded. “She’s brilliant, Molly. Sherrinford was at her disposal.”

“And she escaped…she got out.”

“Yes.”

She shivered. “Go on.”

“I should also mention that she was threatening to crash a plane full of people who were unconscious and a little girl who was the only one awake, and who we were speaking with on the phone.”

“Oh my god.”

“Anyway,” he leaned back and crossed his legs. “Next cell…there was a mystery to solve. I had to condemn someone to death, and I got it right, but she ended up killing three people…all three suspects in a murder.”

Her mouth hung open. “Sherlock…you want me to meet her?”

“She’s my sister. Like it or not.”

Molly nodded.

He shifted a bit…”Then it was your room. We walked in, and there was a coffin there. She instructed me to deduce whose coffin it was…and I began to. Meanwhile, Mycroft read the inscription on the lid. It said, ‘I love you.’ Euros wanted me to make you say those words in under three minutes without alerting you to danger, or she would blow up your flat. Of course, I was desperate to make you say them…” he paused. “You know the rest. Except that, when the call ended, I ripped apart the coffin with my bare hands.”

Molly’s eyes went wide. She shook her head. “What did you mean when you said that it’s complicated, how you feel about John, Irene, and I?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, if I really thought about it, John was the first person since Victor that I allowed myself to befriend and care for. Love, eventually. A deep and real friendship. Irene, well…I sort of, opened myself up to sex. Another step in maturation. But I never loved her…despite the many attempts at guessing that I was on John’s part.   
The last bit, romantic love,” he continued. “That is very complex, and a combination of friendship and sexual attraction, as well as a myriad of other things. And I closed myself off to that for a long while. I probably would have forever, had Euros not intervened.”

She smiled…”And you had an ongoing sexual relationship with a gay dominatrix. That must have been very odd for someone who didn’t have a lot of background knowledge going into it. I always wondered, but never thought it was my business to ask…Was it just curiosity?”

“A bit,” he shifted.

“Well…” she sat back, nodding and swallowing. “What about the plane?”

“It was Euros all along. She was the little girl, desperate to be saved, to be noticed…loved. I suppose, that’s what we all want in the end, isn't it? No matter what we tell ourselves.”

“It is, yes.”

He smiled. “It was a long and difficult lesson to learn. But I did. Or I am, at any rate,” he shrugged.

Molly was looking at him rather intently. “Sherlock?”

“Hm.”

“Did Euros follow me?”

“I don’t know,” he set his mouth.

“I wonder what she saw. How she knew…”

He didn’t answer.

“Because, I guess, Jim wasn’t convinced,” she shrugged.

He cleared his throat. “Moriarty possessed no subtly nor nuance.”

“No, he didn’t.”

His eyes shot to hers. “What happened between the two of you that he wasn’t convinced of your regard?”

Molly smiled. “Nothing, Sherlock. I kissed him once.”

His back tensed, and he took a deep breath, nodding. 

“I’m pretty sure it was your disinterest that made him ignore me.”

His gaze fell and he shrugged. “Well, at least my disinterest served some good.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“The lab here is nearly done,” he checked his phone, ready to move on. “It’s about five. Hungry?”

“Um…” she looked around. “Are you cooking? Have you got telly?”

“No. But Mrs Hudson does in A. I can get some take away and we can join her for dinner. She’ll like that,” and he stood, getting his coat. 

“Ok. Are you sure she won’t mind?”

“No. She lives for this sort of thing,” he smiled and opened the door for her.

 

The Chinese food boxes were strewn about on the table and the three were sitting watching telly. Some period drama that Sherlock couldn’t care less for, but Molly and Mrs Hudson were enthralled. He was scrolling through his phone while they sat transfixed. 

“I never liked him. Look at they way he looks at her,” Mrs Hudson was pointing at the screen.

“He isn't very nice, is he?” Molly said in low tones.

“Nice is overrated,” observed Sherlock, without looking up.

“Oh you,” replied Mrs Hudson. “We see through it, you know,” she smiled at him and went back to the program. “He’s all talk,” she whispered to Molly.

Molly smiled. “Oh, look. I love those two!” she observed with a squeal.

“Is it almost over?” asked Sherlock, and he put his phone away.

“Yes…just…” Molly began…and she and Mrs Hudson both said in unison, “Aw!” 

…and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, that was wonderful. Molly, can I walk you? Or get you a cab?”

“Don’t you like Downton Abbey, Sherlock?” Molly smiled. 

“Is that what that was?” he stood, stretching a bit.

“He doesn’t like it, Mrs Hudson,” and she stood.  

“No accounting for taste, I guess,” Mrs Hudson stood now. “Thanks for dinner, it was lovely.”

Molly was clearing off the table and putting things in the sink. 

“I’ll get a cab while you finish, Molly,” and Sherlock pecked Mrs Hudson’s cheek. 

“So…” Mrs Hudson began. “You and Sherlock…” she smiled.

Molly looked at her and blushed. “Yeah…It’s so strange.”

“Well, you’ll have that. He always was an odd boy. Shouldn't really be surprising that his love life is strange, too.”

“That’s not really what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“I meant…I meant that,” she finished up and wiped her forehead. “That, I had always wanted this, and never thought that it would happen. But it is. It did. I mean, almost…never mind.”

“That’s all right, dear. I know what you meant,” and she patted her hand. “Sex will come soon enough,” Mrs Hudson paused. “Oh look! I still have it! Unintentional sexual innuendo,” and she laughed, leaving Molly alone. 

Molly…who went down to Sherlock’s flat and grabbed her coat, then went outside to meet him. He was already in the cab waiting for her, scrolling through his phone.

“Anything?” she asked, getting in.

“Nope. Boring as ever,” and he turned it off and put it in his pocket…and the cab drove away for Molly’s.

“I had a lovely day.”

He looked at her and nodded. “Good.”

“Sherlock…”

“Hm?” he was looking out the window.

“What exactly…how would you say…?”

And he looked at her. “What is it, Molly? Just say it.”

She swallowed and looked at her hands. “How would you describe your relationship with Irene?”

He took a deep breath, never leaving her face. “It’s bothering you.”

“Well, it’s odd. You told me that you had only had a couple of sexual partners before her, and then you start a long term one with a dominatrix…it just makes me wonder if I won't be able to satisfy you,” she looked out of her own window. “Sexually.”

“This is probably not a conversation for the innards of a cab.”

“Why not? People do far worse than this,” she looked at him, eyes flashing a bit.

“All right,” he said, and folded his hands on his lap. “Irene was very pushy. Very forthright. Very…deliberate, in her seduction. Which is what is was. I cannot deny that it wasn’t a bit…beguiling. So, I figured better to act than not. Not many people can claim to have had a dominatrix seduce them. But I couldn’t have her become too much of a distraction, so we met once a year. She would fuss occasionally, tease me that I wanted more than that. But I never did.”

“Was she…did she…beat you?” Molly whispered.

“Yesss….that’s rather her thing, Molly. But the last couple of times, I refused. She didn’t like that much,” he smiled. 

“So, what did you do instead?”

“I took the dominant role. At first she liked the change up. But this most recent encounter, she was put off by it, and ended it early.”

“So, did you enjoy being beaten?”

“Ah…” he swallowed. Did he? (and he paused a moment to reflect on just how open and honest he was being with her, and was pleased) “Yes,” a bit reluctantly. “But not so much so that it was something that I’d want to practice on a regular basis.”

“You liked being dominant better?”

“‘ere’s your stop!” yelled the cabbie, and he turned. “‘e likes being dom, miss. But likes to change it up sometimes.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and he took out the money. “Thank you for your input. And for eavesdropping,” he got out of the cab. He walked over to where Molly was, in front of her flat, and she had her hand covering her mouth. 

“Oh my god, Sherlock! I’m sorry…” but she was laughing.

He rolled his eyes. “I suppose that in the grand scheme of things, a cabbie knowing that I prefer to be dominant sexually, while occasionally being beaten by a dominatrix, isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

“No,” and she cleared her throat.

“So much for your hypothesis that worse things happen in cabs.”

“Well, I’d say that they do. We just got stuck with a nosey cabbie.”

He smiled, and leaned against the low wall leading into her flat. “So…”

“Do you…” she blushed, looking at her door. “Did you…?”

“Goodnight, Molly,” and he took her scarf lightly, and pulled her to him. 

…and he kissed her lightly…then brushed his lips against hers slightly…he deepened the kiss, but it was still soft…and his hands went to her neck, while her hands held onto his arms, moving upward. He pulled away, kissing her once more delicately. 

“You’re off the entire day tomorrow and the next?” he asked.

“Hm?” and she opened her eyes. “Off tomorrow, yes.”

He smiled. “I’ll text you. I was thinking about perhaps having an open office, and John needs to be at the clinic. Would you like to…”

“Solve crimes?” she smiled.

“That’s it. And then maybe dinner.”

“Ok,” she nodded. “Goodnight Sherlock,” and she walked around him, and into her flat.

And he shoved his hands in his pockets, turned, and walked home.


	12. Chapter 12

He was sitting in his chair, and Molly was in John's. And the client…well, he was in the client's chair.

But Sherlock was not really paying much attention.

"…I think that he was lying, Mr Holmes. He was lying, and now all of my money's gone," he paused. "Mr Holmes?"

Molly looked at Sherlock…her eyebrows went up…he was staring at her. "Mr…Kincaid…" she said, looking now at the client. "You said that the lawyer didn't have the safety deposit key."

Said Mister looked from Sherlock to Molly and nodded. "Yes. That's right."

"But there was only one made?"

He nodded.

Molly's brow furrowed. "Well…"

"Her brother," Sherlock said.

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked.

"The brother," and he tore his eyes from her, and looked at the client. "Your wife's brother. He has a gambling problem. You said he was a law clerk…probably recently changed situations. Find out if he moved to your lawyer's law firm, and if he has, he's the one who stole your money. If not, come back Monday and we will launch an investigation. I take cheques or cash only."

He looked dumbfounded. "I…"

"Cheques or cash Mr Kincaid. Send the next one in on your way out, if you don't mind," he smiled. "Tea?" he asked Molly as he stood.

"Thanks," she nodded, as the client handed her cash, a sour look on his face, and he left. "Is it always like this, Sherlock?"

"Like what?" he prepared the kettle.

"Like…you listen to someone, sort of, then you tell them what you've deduced, and then they leave, crestfallen…?"

"It pays the bills, Molly," he folded his arms. "Often I think I'm just a novelty, and people are here to catch a look. But most of the time, I think it's sincere."

"I never thought that you worried over money."

And the kettle screamed, and he prepared the tea. "Well…Mycroft is very, very wealthy. If I ever needed money, he'd give it to me, no questions asked."

"Have you ever asked?"

"Once or twice," he handed her the cup. "And guilt is a very effective tool where Mycroft is concerned. He paid for everything in this flat, and is footing most of the bill for B," and he sat.

"Wow…"

…and a woman entered. "I'm the last one," she said, coming in.

"Really?" Sherlock looked beyond her. "Early day today."

"We've been at it for five hours," Molly observed.

Sherlock winked. "But a trifle."

"Oh my god," she replied, a bit annoyed.

"Um…should I come back?"

"No no, have a seat," Sherlock gestured for her to sit. "What can we do for you Miss…?"

"Foster. Mrs, actually."

Sherlock looked and saw no ring, nor any evidence of one ever being worn. "Apologies, Mrs Foster. How can we help?"

"My husband…."

He rolled his eyes covertly…god he hoped this wasn't adultery. So incredibly boring.

"…he's dying, and he won't let me see him. And I think it's because …I'm married to someone else."

"What?" Molly asked.

"I got married some time ago. Service man…and he was killed in combat…I got the papers and everything," she held out the information to Sherlock, who took them. "And so I mourned, and a few years later, I met someone, and we married. But then, six months ago, Carl came home. Risen from the dead…and now…" she dabbed her eyes.

"Now, Mrs Foster…this is not really my area," Sherlock said carefully and with delicacy. "However, I believe that I can help you," he took out his phone and dialed up his brother. "Mycroft. I'm sending over a Mrs…?" he looked at the client.

"Dana."

He nodded. "Dana Foster. She came here as a client, but I think that she's better served by your office. Treat her with some care. Someone mucked up this woman's life," he paused. "Oh just do it and stop whining. And I'll see you at eleven tomorrow…" pause…"Saturday, Mycroft. Just…" he rolled his eyes. "Yes. In fact, John is coming, too. Yes," and he hung up. "Now, Mrs Foster that was my brother Mycroft Holmes. He works at Downing Street, and he can have this sorted for you in an hour," he scribbled some notes on a piece of paper. "Give this directly to him," he handed it to her. "Good luck," and nodded.

"Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes. You were my last hope," she smiled and left.

Molly was smiling. "You just changed that woman's life," she looked at him. "What?" she asked, as he was looking at her again.

"You're beautiful."

"Stop it, Sherlock," Molly blushed, and sat back with her tea.

"What? Can't I call you beautiful?" and he sat back in his chair.

"No."

"That's absurd."

"It's not, because I'm not. S'okay. I've lived with this for my whole life…it's really fine."

"You don't think that you're beautiful," he said it, not a question.

"I know I'm not."

"Molly…"

She sighed. "Sherlock, please stop. It isn't important to me. If I…I dunno…cared more, then it would be different. But I don't, so it isn't."

He observed her crookedly. "That's very…common of you. I expected more."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you are, objectively speaking, quite lovely. You should embrace it and say 'thank you,' instead of attempting to undermine my observation."

Molly sighed and smiled a bit. "Point taken. Thank you…but I still disagree."

"Did Tom never compliment your looks?"

"He…did. Yes."

"And did you argue with him about it?"

"Sometimes."

Sherlock exhaled a thin breath through his nose. "So…dinner. What do you say to Italian? Or would you rather some fish and chips?"

"I like Italian…are you thinking that place on Northumberland?"

"Mm…Giovani and I haven't seen one another in a while," and he stood.

"When did we go again? It's been a while."

He thought a moment. "A few months after I returned. Giovani wasn't there that night."

"That's right," and she got her coat. "I like it there."

"Ah! Sherlock! It's been too long!" Giovani greeted him. "And you have a date!" he shook Molly's hand.

"Hi," she said a bit nervously.

"Giovani…this is Molly Hooper…do you have a table for us?"

"Absolutely! Follow me…" and he showed them to a corner table in the back.

They sat and looked at the menu.

"Wine?"

"Thanks," Sherlock said, nodding. "Red…the usual."

"Be right back. It's so good to see you, Sherlock. Next time, don't wait so long," he clapped him on the shoulder.

"So…you thinking pasta? Or something less traditional?"

Molly was looking. "Mm…I like chicken marsala."

"Good," and he folded the menu. "Tell me about Tom."

"What?" she looked up from her menu.

"Come, Molly. Play fair…I've divulged many, many things to you recently."

…and the wine came. "Just in time," she said, and took a long draught.

"Is it that bad?" he asked, sipping.

"No…it's just…embarrassing, I guess."

"You were about to marry the man."

"God. I know," and she covered her face with her hands.

"Well…there must have been something that you liked about him."

She dropped her hands. "He was very nice and very attentive," she began.

"Perhaps too much?"

"Maybe," she shrugged.

He sat there, waiting…"That was an enthralling description of your relationship with your former fiancee. Thank you."

She laughed. "What do you want to know?"

"What did you two do for fun? What sort of things did you talk about? How often and how good was the sex?" he added, and Giovani came and took their orders.

"We…" she sipped some more. "Well, we took his dog for walks. A lot, actually. We talked about…every day things. Nothing terribly deep…"

"No, I wouldn't think so."

She smiled. "When he asked me to marry him, I waited for a while before I gave him an answer."

"How long?" he sipped.

"A week."

"Why?"

Molly's brow furrowed. "When I met Tom, I was in a terrible place. I…I felt as though my life was a joke. Like I had never really grown up. I had a job I loved, but that was all I had. John stopped talking to me. And I had Meena, but she isn't a…a…" Molly looked to the ceiling for an answer. "A kindred spirit. She has her head in the clouds," and she smiled, looking at her glass again. "So, I felt alone. And though I always had been, to a greater or lesser degree, it was worse, because you were gone," she swallowed. "No matter what you said or did, I could never stop caring about you…and once you weren't there, there was this void, and I realized that my crush, or whatever you want to call it, was much more. And it scared me. It scared me to think that I was in love with someone who would never love me back. And I panicked. I wanted to stamp you out…I was angry. So, when I met Tom, he sort of…made me feel like I could move on."

Sherlock swallowed…he wanted to reach across the table to her…but opted for folding his hands.

"And I did. I lost myself in this man. I became everything that he was, and everything that I thought that I wanted to be. And I became strong and self assured," she looked at him. "I was over you. I had moved on…until I didn't," she drank the rest of her wine, and Sherlock held his finger up to the server. Molly's glass was refilled. "When you came back, I think…I think that both Tom and I panicked. We had been together for about a year…and he noticed my change when you returned. And he proposed on the spot. Just a few days after you came home. I had become somewhat more distant…and I was distracted…and I was…" she closed her eyes. "Anyway. After John and Mary's wedding, I realized that I couldn't do that to him. He was a nice and good person. It wasn't fair. Even if I died alone, it was the right thing to do. So, a few days after the wedding, I broke it off. And he knew why. And I needed to find myself again."

Sherlock swallowed. "You cared for him very much."

"A part of me loved him," she looked across the table. "But not a big enough part, I guess," she shrugged.

"No."

"Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Not really, but I'm glad you told me."

She smiled. "What specifically did you want to know?" she gave him an exasperated look.

"Honestly? How often you had sex with him."

She laughed. "I dunno, Sherlock. It varied."

"All right, after I came back."

"Ugh," she rolled her eyes. "Ah…three times a week?"

"So…when you said, 'We're having an awful lot of sex'," he said in an attempt to mimic her. "That meant, three times a week?"

"When did I say…?"

"At the lab, when I was planning the stag night."

"Oh…oh my god. You've been worrying about that? I was trying to make you jealous…"

"It worked," and he sipped his wine.

She laughed. "Part of me wishes that I knew about all this."

"The part that desires sexual intercourse more often than three times a week?"

And she laughed again, blushing a bit. "Sherlock…"

"Because that's a paltry effort," he winked.

"Oh my god," she covered her face…

…and their food arrived.

"So," he began. "About tomorrow…"

Molly bit into her dinner.

"John will be there. Everything will be all right."

She swallowed. "Why is this important to you?"

"Because…" he cleared his throat. "My family will be there. And you're part of that."

Her eyes went wide and she swallowed. "Oh."

"So…"

"I'll go. Thank you."

He smiled. "Good."

She nodded. "It's so odd, thinking of you as a sexual person," changing the subject completely…

He put his fork down. "Why? Why is this so odd to everyone? I'm certainly old enough. I've lived in the world…"

"There is such a thing as asexuality, Sherlock."

"Is that what you thought I was? An asexual?"

"Well, ya. It made sense. I mean, until Irene," she shrugged and sipped her wine.

"I simply have astounding control over myself."

"You're a junkie."

He blinked. "Well, besides that."

Molly laughed. "Oh come on. It's nothing to get fussed about."

And he smirked. "You know, when you're ready, Molly…" his voice fell…"All doubt will leave you."

She cleared her throat, and smiled. "I can only imagine."

"Oh, you really can't."

"It seems, if nothing else, having an affair with a dominatrix made you bold."

He sat back. "Part of it is for fun. But part…mm…" he paused. "…that's for fun, too," he smiled and picked up his fork again.

She smiled and finished her dinner.

They were riding in the cab, Molly was too tired from the wine and the heavy meal to walk. She was drowsy, and before long, her head had fallen on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.

He felt like an idiot, but increasingly less so. He had discovered so much about himself that he was more grateful that it hadn't been too late than he was upset that he never saw. And while there was much he had missed, at least there was no marriage involved…thank god Molly was sentimental and true to herself.

And he thought about taking her home to her flat, and if he should go in.

Best not. She was exhausted…whenever they consummate, it should be with eyes wide open.

They reached her flat. "Molly," he touched her arm. "We're here," and he took out his wallet, handing the cabbie the fare. "Molly…" he removed his arm from her grasp.

"Hm?"

"You're home," and he helped her sit up. "Come on…" and he decided to get out and open her door.

…which he did, and he held onto her arm as he led her to her flat. "Where are your keys?"

"Oh, I can do it…" she took them out and opened the door.

And he stood there a moment, unsure if he should follow her in, or close her door for her and head home…

He opted for the former, for no obviously good reason.

Molly was already curled on the sofa in a blanket. He smiled and went over to her. "Are you going to sleep here, Molly?" he touched her shoulder.

"Mm. Maybe. So tired."

"Ok," and he tucked the blanket…

"Where are you going?" her eyes were half open.

"Home."

"Sit with me for a minute, Sherlock. I want to know that you're real."

"What do you mean?"

"I need to know that you're real…" she tugged on his sleeve. "How is this real?"

"You're not making sense," he said, sitting next to her.

"No, I suppose not," and she sat up, waking up more fully. She rubbed her eyes, then looked at him. "Thanks. I had another wonderful day."

He nodded…and part of him wanted to kiss her…but another part was dubious, so he opted for a peck on the cheek. "Good night, Molly Hooper," and he stood.

"Good night. I'll see you in the morning."

He walked to the door. "I'll be here about nine to get you," and he left.

Sherlock walked home again…it was becoming a routine of his…walking home from Molly's flat. And he buttoned up his Belstaff, flipped the collar, and listened to the crunch of the grit under his shoes as he walked.


	13. Chapter 13

“No,” he buttoned up his shirt. “I don’t care, Mycroft. This was the understanding, now see that it’s done,” he hung up the phone.

“Mycroft giving you problems?” John was looking at the Times. He had just dropped off Rosie with Mrs Hudson.

“He’s just being difficult. He thinks he’s being coy…but it’s ridiculous. Our parents are expecting that helicopter by ten, and he’s saying it won’t be there until eleven.”

“But that’s when…”

“When we are supposed to see Euros, yes.”

John folded the paper. “Why doesn’t Mycroft want to see her?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Probably guilt. He cannot accept anyone’s love.”

“Well, neither could you, until recently.”

“Yes but I’m emotionally stunted, and only now fully realizing the scope of my Id, and attempting to marry it with my amok Super Ego.”

“Since when did you start subscribing to Freud?” he stood.

“Since I learned that I repressed memories, changed my best friend into a dog, and fell in love without recognizing it,” and he swung his coat on, and they left. 

“Speaking of Molly…how are things?” they got into a cab, ready for them as they left Baker Street to pick her up.

“Fine,” he took out his mobile and texted her. 

'Be there in 15 minutes'

Send.

“Just fine?”

Sherlock looked at him. “Well, yes. Things are very good. What would you like for me to say?”

“You’re in love for the first time, mate. Things should be bloody wonderful.”

He smiled, and shrugged. “She’s…apprehensive. And I think that my comments are somewhat off putting.”

“What comments?”

“Oh, just some light sexual innuendo.”

“Probably just shocking to her….but she’s apprehensive? I don’t get it. I figured she’d be all over you.”

He looked out of the window. “I don’t know why you’d think that.”

“Ah, because I’ve been paying attention for seven years, and she positively pined over you.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Well, she isn’t.”  “Not at all?”

“She…” he paused. ”She’s receptive to my advances, but I haven’t pressed the matter. I hurt her, more than I think I can possibly comprehend. And I think it’s just taking some time for her to accept that I’m sincere.”

“She doesn’t believe you?”

“No, she does. She’s taking it slowly. She asked for a few days to think…after I confessed everything and explained it all. That was…three days ago, now?” he looked at John….

…who nodded. “Makes sense, I guess. She’s been through so much.”

“Maybe I should give her space. Maybe tomorrow I won't bother her at all…” he sighed, and looked at his hands. “Though I imagine that will be extremely difficult. The mere idea of not seeing her for the day makes me anxious.”

“Oh, Sherlock. You have it bad,” he laughed. 

“I do not, as you say, ‘have it bad.’ This is perfectly normal behavior.”

“How would you know?” they reached her flat.

Sherlock glared at him and left the cab to get Molly…

She opened the door before he could ring the bell. “Morning, Molly. Ready?”

“Yes,” and she locked her door. “Is John with you?”

“Yep,” he opened the door for her and climbed in next to her, giving the cabbie the next address. 

“Hey John,” Molly smiled. He had taken the seat across from them. 

“Hey Molly. Ready to meet the family?”

She laughed. “I guess I need to be, hm?” 

“Well, it’s never boring,” John said. 

“I think that’s on the family crest, actually. Never Boring.” Sherlock smiled, scrolling through his phone.

Molly laughed. “I can well believe it…but your mum and dad…aren’t they…?”

“Normal?” John supplied.

“Please don’t use that word, John. You know how I abhor it.”

John rolled his eyes, and gave Molly a wink. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that outfit new?”

“It is…sort of. I bought it some time ago and never had occasion to wear it.”

…and Sherlock turned off his phone and looked at her. Is this the type of conversation that she wanted? Because he simply could not do that day in and day out. 

And Molly looked at him and smiled. “You ready to see your sister?”

He nodded. “Molly…”

She lifted her eyebrows in question. 

He cleared his throat. “Are you happy?”

“What?” 

…and John quickly looked out the window.

“Are you happy? With this…?” and he signaled a connection between the two of them.

“Of course I am,” her voice cracked. “Why would you think…?”

“Because…” he paused, and looked out of his own window. “I’ll talk to you about it later.”

And they boarded the helicopter, Sherrinford bound.

 

“You recall everything that we discussed your previous visit?” the guard asked.

Sherlock nodded…but he was thinking about getting someplace with Molly to speak with her before they went to see Euros, for his sister was bound to pick up some discontent. And he did not want that.

“Is there a place…a quiet place…I can speak with the woman I’m with. Just ten minutes?” he asked, looking at John and Molly, standing a few feet behind them.

“Yeah…but it’ll need to be quick,” and he turned.

“Wonderful…let me get her…” and he went over to Molly. “Can you come with me please? John…we’ll be back in ten minutes. Mycroft should be here within that time.”

Molly looked at John, but took Sherlock’s hand. “Where…?”

“Just this way,” and they followed the guard to a balcony. 

“Ten minutes, sir. This is usually off limits to non employees…”

“Thank you so much,” he smiled, and dropped Molly’s hand. He sighed as the guard left, then looked at her. “I wanted the chance to speak with you before we saw Euros.”

“About why you think I’m unhappy?” she crossed her arms. 

“Well, yes.”

“Why do you think that? Is it because we haven’t had sex? Because I thought that you were being understanding and giving me a little bit of time.”

“That’s only part of it. I…” he swallowed. “I was thinking, maybe I’m being too forceful. Or perhaps, you’re disappointed…as in, perhaps you’ve built something up in your head, and I’m not what you imagined…maybe you desire something that I simply cannot offer you…” he finished, thinking of the conversation she had with John.

“Sherlock. I know you. I know you. And while all of those jokes about sex are a bit strange, they aren’t changing how I think about you, or how I feel. I’m afraid nothing could change that.”

He nodded. 

“I love you, ok? I love you. No matter what. That’s what that means. I think that I’ve proven that repeatedly over the years. At least, I hope that I have.”

“You have,” he muttered.

“Why are you pouting?”

“I’m not! I just…did it again. I made this about me, when it should be about you.”

She smiled. “S’okay, Sherlock. It’s part of your charm.”

“Ready to face the family?” he smiled at her.

She let out a long breath and nodded…

 

“Oh, Sherlock…” began Mrs Holmes when she saw him. “Is this…” when she saw Molly. 

“This is Molly, yes. Molly, this is my mother, Violet.”

“Pleasure,” Molly shook her hand. 

“Hello Miss Hooper,” Mycroft nodded. 

“Can you call me Molly, please?” she hugged Mycroft, who went suddenly ramrod straight. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded, pulling away. “Thank you, Molly. Did my brother prepare you for our sister?”

“I….”

Sherlock looked at him. “She’s fine. We are going to go in ahead of all of you,” he looked at his parents and John. “Ok?” he looked at Mycroft.

“Is that wise?”

“It’s what we are doing,” and he took Molly’s hand and led her down the corridor to the heavy metal door. “Don’t worry, Molly. Just let me do the talking. She likely won’t speak at all.”

And the guard opened the door for them.

…and there was Euros, with her back to the door, sitting to the side, clad in white. 

He felt Molly’s hesitation, but he didn’t let go of her hand. 

“Good afternoon, Euros. I brought someone to meet you…you’ve already seen her, but since you are my sister, I thought that you might want to be formally introduced.”

Nothing.

“You see, you were right, as you already know. I was, and am, in love with Molly Hooper, and though your method of altering me to that was unorthodox, it certainly did the trick,” he paused. He waited for her to respond…and looked at Molly. ”She won’t turn. I didn't bring my violin, but I thought that she might be willing…”

“Sherlock,” Molly said…then looked at the glass.

Euros was standing there, looking at them. 

He turned fully, not letting go of Molly’s hand, and swallowed. “Hello, Euros.”

Nothing.

But she was looking at Molly. And he felt Molly step a bit closer to him.

“As I said, this is Molly Hooper. Surely you recognize her.”

Euros cocked her head somewhat.

“And I brought her here to you to meet, since we are together, and you are my sister.”

“How quaint,” Euros said.

“Yes, if you like.”

“She’s smaller than I thought.”

And he felt Molly stiffen. He looked in her direction and squeezed her hand. “Molly, this is Euros.”

“Hello,” Molly said, then taking a step away from him, and dropping his hand. “What’s it like in there?”

Euros smiled. “Everything you’d imagine it to be.”

“So, cold and bright, lonesome and confined?”

No answer.

“I’m sorry for you.”  

“I don’t need your pity,” Euros replied with a glare.

“No. I didn't think that you did. You need my friendship.”

And Sherlock smiled, marveling at her. 

Molly continued, “And it wasn’t a great start to it. So let’s start again. I’m Molly Hooper, you’re Euros Holmes. And I’m happy to meet you.”

Euros smiled at her, and there was no condescension there…

“I’ll send for mummy and Mycroft…” Sherlock said, texting them.

“She is a pretty little thing, Sherlock. I’m not surprised at you wanting to keep her.”

“More like her wanting to keep me, I’m afraid,” and he looked up from his phone. 

“Is that how it is?”

Molly swallowed, and heard the rest of the party enter. 

“It’s however we decide it is,” Sherlock smiled, and went to greet his parents. 

They were there the entire hour, and though Molly didn’t speak to Euros again, she appeared at ease when they left. And this pleased him.

 

He was tired in the cab, and spoke but little to John or Molly. He felt as though there were things running through his mind in quick succession:  
He was worried about Molly and her relationship with his family  
He was concerned about his parents and how they were now dealing with his sister  
He was thinking about Mycroft and his insistence on remaining stoically alone  
He wanted to make love to Molly  
He wanted to be with her more than he was at present, day to day

His head was resting on the window, and he was staring at the sky. It was just after dinner time, and they hadn’t eaten. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Did you want to stop for some food?” John was speaking, and when Sherlock looked up, there was a concerned look on his face. 

“I don’t mind.”

“What do you say, Molly?” John turned his attention to her.

“I could eat.”

“Good. Let’s stop then,” and he knocked on the glass to the driver.

 

They were in a Thai restaurant, and John and Molly were talking about Rosie.  
 Sherlock remained rather pensive and withdrawn. 

“I think that the visit went well, don’t you?” John asked.

Sherlock looked up. “Yes. I think it was fine…” he took another bite. 

“What’s bothering you, then?”  He looked from John to Molly. “Nothing specific. Many things simultaneously, none of which are particularly pressing.”

John nodded. “Well, I thought that the visit went really great. Everyone seemed like they were comfortable, and that’s something. Considering.”

“My father didn’t go.”

“No. Why not?”

“Apparently he was feeling ill,” and he sipped some water.

John nodded. He cleared his throat. “Ready, Molly?”  

She was looking at Sherlock. “Yeah…” and she shook her head and wiped her mouth. “Be right back,” she got up to go to the loo after handing John some money.

“Sherlock.”  

“Hm.”

“What’s going on?”

He looked at him. “Nothing. Why?”

“You’re awfully quiet,” and he paid the bill.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About…?”

“Many things.”

  John nodded. “Were you able to square things away with Molly?”

“Yes…she’s ok,” and he stood. “I’ll get a cab,” he left…

…his mind wouldn't stop, and he couldn’t account for it. The visit with Euros had gone surprisingly well, and yet there were these unsettling feelings pervading his thoughts. Why was he suddenly so concerned about Mycroft? Why was he fussing about familial harmony? 

He got the cab and got in. “I’m waiting on two more people,” and he took his phone out. 

He felt John and Molly get into the cab, but didn’t respond to their entry. 

He was a moody bastard.

After about ten minutes, John said goodnight to Molly. “Goodnight, Sherlock. Thanks for inviting me.” 

“You’re family, John. Of course you were there,” he smiled at him. “Good night.”

John looked at Molly, then got out of the cab. 

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?” he looked at her.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just…preoccupied.”

“With?”

“Worries over my family, mostly. Odd, that. I never really worried much before about them,” and he looked out of the window.

“What are you worrying about?”

“Well, the fact that my sister is locked away and likely will never get out. The fact that my brother is stubbornly alone. About you meeting my family and feeling uncomfortable,” he shrugged. “That sort of thing.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

He looked at her. “Do you? Because I hardly do.”

“It’s natural to feel those things. Especially considering that you have a unique family,” she smiled.

“That’s one word for it.”

“Baker Street!” called the cabbie.

“Oh…” and Sherlock looked. “I had meant for him to take you home first,” he said to Molly. “John must have given him my address,” he took out money.

“Well, I can come in for a bit, if you don’t mind,” she shrugged, looking at him.

“No, not at all,” he said, and he paid the cabbie. 

They both got out, and Sherlock opened the door for her. 

“Oh, hello, Sherlock, Molly dear,” Mrs Hudson smiled. She was putting on her coat.

“Going out, Mrs Hudson?” Molly asked. 

“Yes…for the night, actually. Meeting some old friends,” and she opened the door. “Well, goodnight!” 

Sherlock looked at Molly for a moment, then went to C and opened the door. She followed him inside and took off her coat.

He did the same. “Want something to drink?”

“I’m fine,” and she sat on the sofa. 

He nodded. “Mind if I play?” he picked up his violin. 

“Not at all.”

He shrugged off his coat and started on Mendelssohn. He was lost in the sound …the vibration of the instrument against his face…he was already feeling the effect of the music, the calm, the clarity it afforded him…

…he loved his family, but they were forever a source of stress. Much like any family. His conflicting emotions tethered to these people caused him stress, and the fact that now he was adding Molly to it was worrisome. She would see his origins in a way that few had. Maybe she wouldn’t like it. Maybe she would see that they created stress and want to bolt. 

He had thought about much lately, but not really his actual family. His mother and father, who had been through so much as well. His brother, whom he simply couldn't reconcile his feelings for…Mycroft was someone whom he respected but also made him mad with confusion. Mycroft was forever competitive with him, and he was only beginning to see why. It was because people, inexplicably liked him…

Mycroft couldn’t really boast that. And though he pretended it didn’t matter, it actually did. 

…the music was light, but he sung the sorrow into his instrument, and the pain and confusion of his current state was palpable in the space around him.

He would need to spend more time with Mycroft. He would need to phone his parents more. His heart was full with love for them…even Euros. 

And a single note played out…he held it long…

…and he set it down, lost in the music still in his ears. He swallowed. 

He was so different…he hardly recognized himself. But that was ok. He was becoming the man he always had been.

And he looked at Molly.

And she was crying.

“Molly?”

She stood. She swallowed, looking intently at him. 

…and she took a step…

…and he felt it. All sound fell from the air, and he took a step toward her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Mad sickness this week, but all better now. I mean to finish this up soon...and I've added a chapter to the length.  
> Citrus following...

'You can see me.'

'I don’t count.'

 

He was looking at her…never leaving her face…and walked slowly closer to her. Molly hadn’t moved…

But then she did. She hesitated a touch, and then walked over, stopping in front of him. And she swallowed, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close. And he did the same, taken a bit aback by her action.

…and he thought that it had been long since anyone had hugged him…he never allowed it. Yes, he had hugged John to comfort him about Mary, but no one dared to offer him comfort…he had denied himself touch. And so he relished it…the closeness of her, her arms, her face resting against his chest…and he kissed the top of her head. He felt her warmth and he basked in it. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away.

“What for?” lamenting her distance.

“For…everything that’s happened to you. You’re an incredible person without the past you have. You are extraordinary with it,” she smiled. 

“I’m not,” he shrugged. “I used to think so. My greatest weakness…to stubbornly hold onto my uniqueness.”

“I think that you are,” Molly said.

He swallowed. “Thank you.”

Her breath was coming fast. 

But he wouldn't act…he would wait for her. 

And Molly reached for him…she ran her hands up his chest…up to his shoulders…and she took off his suit jacket…he closed his eyes. And she ran her hands back down his chest…she reached up…

…and she took his mouth in hers…

Sherlock deepened it quickly, wrapping his arms around her…the sweet relief of the action filled his senses with warmth…and he moaned a touch, savoring her taste and the dance they were doing in the middle of the sitting room. 

Hands were everywhere, grasping at clothes, teeth and tongues…

In between, before he could begin to take off any of her clothes…”Here?”

“Bedroom,” she gasped.

And he took her hand, leading her down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. He pulled her jumper off, and leaned in for another kiss, unbuttoning her blouse, tearing it from her, his hunger acute, he couldn’t leave her mouth.

And once he got the clasps undone, her bra was on the floor, and he eased her onto the bed, finally breaking the kiss. 

…Sherlock undid her pants and pulled them from her with some ferocity, anxious beyond reason…

And Molly laid there, her knees bent somewhat, naked on his bed. 

He swallowed, and placed his hand on her knee. She was so vulnerable…so lovely…and she was his…and his hand went to her stomach, up to her breast, and he cupped it, relishing the feel of her, and she opened her legs, as he leaned in to kiss her once more. 

Molly unbuttoned his shirt, and sat up, bringing him with her…she pulled it off and threw it to the floor. 

He gasped…and cupped her face. He was kneeling on his bed…and he got up, taking his pants off, and retrieved a condom from his bedside table. 

He had put it on, then turned to Molly…he sat next to her, but before he could do anything, she was straddling him, sinking onto his arousal, and he was powerless. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she was on his lap, moving with some fluidity. He felt her hands grasping at his back, and his face was buried in her shoulder as she moved…he was close…so quickly she made him reach this point…his hands were on her back, fingers wrapped at her shoulders, he was at her mercy…he moved, deepening his position inside of her, and she let out a groan that captivated him…

…and he was nearly there, Molly’s movement was a kind rhythm, nothing frantic, but severe in its own right…he moved his hand toward her sex, and that was all she required…she spilled her orgasm into his hand, and he immediately followed. 

They were both in a pant. 

And Molly was shaking.  
He was trembling.

They hadn't moved at all. 

And he felt himself getting hard again, for he was still inside of her. 

Finally, he pulled away from her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” she choked. “Are you?”

“I…don’t know,” he looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m freezing,” she smiled…and it was true, her teeth had begun to chatter.

“Oh…” and he pulled her off of him. “During intercourse,” and he tossed the used condom into the bin. “Blood rushes to every part of the body,” he took out some pajama pants and a dressing gown. “Immediately following climax,” he pulled on the pants and helped Molly with the dressing gown. “The blood rushes to the core, often causing chills,” and he pulled down the blanket and sheets from the bed. 

“Thank you Sherlock. I understand the biology,” she smiled, getting under the covers. “Why are you trembling?” 

And he was. His hands were positively quaking. “I don’t know. Never happened before,” and he rubbed his hands on his pants. “Water,” he went to retrieve some.

He got two glasses and filled them…idly wondering if the water would be able to find his mouth with his trembling hands. He brought them back and sat on the bed, handing Molly one. 

She sipped. “I never thought of you as the pajama bottom type.”

“I don’t usually sleep in the nude,” he attempted to sip.

“I do,” she smiled.

And he coughed. “Are you trying to kill me, Molly?” 

“No, of course not. Just being playful…” she watched as he tried to drink. “Here,” and she took the glass and raised it to his lips. 

And he drank. “Thank you.”

She placed it on the table…then watched as he leaned over, his hands in his hair…and it was then that she saw his back. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“What happened to your back?”

“What do you mean?” and he turned to look at her. 

She touched one of the scars. “You’ve got scars…all over…”

“Oh. Well, most of that is from when I was abroad a few years ago attempting to uncover Moriarty’s network.”

“You were beaten?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed. “I had no idea…”

“I have loads of scars, Molly. It isn't something to fuss over.”

“No…” and her gaze fell.

He swallowed. “Was it…disappointing?”

“What?”

“Sex. Was it disappointing?”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t….”

“Well, I had rather sold myself recently as this expert. I hadn’t counted on our first encounter being so…so…” he swallowed. “Intense.”

“Oh. God no, Sherlock. It was…” she shrugged. “It was…wonderful. It couldn’t have been anything but wonderful.”

He smiled. 

“How are your hands?” she reached for him.

“Ah…better…” and they were. But still trembling somewhat.

“Here. Lay down,” and she sat back, indicating that his head should go in her lap. 

And he did…and Molly began stroking his head…he wrapped his arms around her legs, and was lulled into a soft sleep.

 

Dull light pieced its way slowly across the room. 

He opened an eye, and felt her beneath him. He raised his head up, and yes…there she was…in his dressing gown, sound asleep. 

Memories of the night previous flooded his mind, and he was equal parts elated and eager to prove himself, for he felt that he had been ill prepared for his reaction to sex with Molly. 

It had never been like that with the Woman. 

He rolled onto his back. Sex with Irene had been odd. He supposed that was mainly due to her profession and her own sexuality, but he had been detached enough that it was no strain on him at all. He enjoyed himself, for the most part, and always left after a couple of hours.

He never slept with her. Never had he had sex and then fell asleep…not even with his first encounter. 

So this was new. And he rather liked it. 

He studied her face as she slept…she had a very slight snore, and she was slouched over…she had evidently fallen asleep while sitting up, and through the night had slid. She was in an awkward position. 

He smiled. 

Sex with Molly was so much…more…he felt out of control. He felt like he couldn’t get close enough…he was satiated, but not…he could have easily had another go.

But he had been more concerned about her comfort…about her…

He supposed that was what was meant by “making love.” Strict consideration for one’s partner. 

Sherlock desperately wanted her to wake…but he felt like such a knave to attempt to. He sighed, and looked at the ceiling.

She would have to work that night.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps he could talk her out of that, just this once…

“Sherlock?”

His eyes flew open. “Molly…” he turned onto his side. “Good morning,” and he touched her cheek, kissed her forehead. 

“Is it morning?”

“By the looks of it. Unless something very, very odd is going on with the world,” and he smiled. 

“We slept all night?” she yawned, and sat up. 

“You are rather quick, you know,” he sat up with her.

“Oh stop it. I haven’t had any coffee yet,” she rubbed her eyes. 

“Molly?”

“Hm?” she looked at him.

“Can I do something?” he was looking at her hair.

“Ok…?”

And he reached for her ponytail, and pulled it out softly. “There,” he ran his fingers through her hair. 

“Better?” she smiled.

“I have always wanted to do that,” and he tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “So…coffee?” and he got up.

“I’ll help,” she got up, too. “Have you got an extra toothbrush?”

“Mm…don’t think so. Use mine,” and he went to the kitchen to start the coffee. 

He bustled about with the coffee, listening to her brush her teeth, and found himself delighted with the sound. 

How very strange that such a thing could cause him joy. 

…and he heard her enter the kitchen…and he looked. She was swimming in his dressing gown…but he absolutely loved seeing her thus. 

“What?” she said, pulling the gown closer. 

“Nothing,” and he turned away. “I’ll just use the loo. Coffee should be ready any minute,” and he went past her into the loo to take care of his morning routine. 

He finished, and walked into the kitchen to find Molly making both cups. 

“Black. Two sugars,” she smiled. 

“Thank you,” and he took his, and sat on the sofa. 

Molly sat on the other end, curled her legs up under her. 

“You work tonight,” he observed.

“Yes,” and she sipped. “But I could come over after, if you want.”

“What time is that?”

“Mm…it’s not the graveyard shift, technically…so about two am, I should think.”

“Two,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Molly, wouldn't it be nice to take the day?”

“Sorry?” 

“You know. Take the day. And we could…just…see where the day takes…us?” he looked at her with a mischievous smirk.

“Sherlock. This is my job. And I just got back from a leave. A leave of your doing,” she added. 

Blast. He had forgotten about that. “Right,” and he sipped more coffee. 

“There you go again…pouting,” she smiled.

He rolled his eyes. “Is it so difficult to believe that I merely want to spend as much time with you as I possibly can? These things are so new, and I want to…” he looked at her. “Enjoy them fully.”

Molly cocked her head. “That’s very sweet, but…”

“It is most certainly not sweet. Retract that immediately,” and he stood, going to the kitchen for more coffee. He heard her sigh. And he closed his eyes. “Sorry…” he muttered. 

…and he felt her arms around his waist. “S’okay. It’s a lot, isn’t it?” she rested her head in between his shoulder blades.

“Yes,” he swallowed.

“You’re allowed to feel this way. But you’re not allowed to dictate my schedule,” she kissed his back through his dressing gown. “And we still have loads of time…”

He smiled. “You have a point,” and he turned toward her.

Molly opened his dressing gown and trailed kisses up his chest….his breath came quick, and he opened her dressing gown, and threw in on the floor…he claimed her mouth and lifted her into a wrap around him. He carried her to the sofa and laid her down…he was hovering over her, taking her nipple in his mouth, her back arching in response, when he realized he had no condoms out in the sitting room. “Damn,” he said, standing up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Be right back,” and he ran to the bedroom to get one. 

“Sherlock…” Molly was sitting up when he returned. “When was the last time you were checked?”

“Checked?” he took off his pants.

“For…disease? I took that blood not long ago…ran the labs. But you haven’t had sex or used since, have you?”

“No…” he saw what she was getting at. “But Molly…”

“I’m on an IUD, you know.”

He swallowed. He had never had sex sans a condom…

“I’m clean,” she smiled. 

“I’m sure,” and he looked away.

“We don’t have to.”

His arousal was depleting somewhat at this conversation. He sat back. “Of course I’d love to, but I’m quite weary of unintended pregnancy and other related concerns.”

“As you should be.”

He looked at her. And yes, he had been tested a very short time ago, and repeatedly over the years. Using with a needle made it necessary. And then sex with a for hire dominatrix, though always with protection, also made it advisable. Though he never dreamed that it would come to this…discussing the possibility of sex without a condom with Molly Hooper. He blanched a bit. “Can we…?”

“What?” she touched his arm.

…and he looked at her, naked, beautiful, sitting on his sofa, her knees up to her chin. He swallowed. And he thought of being inside of her without obstruction…”Are you quite certain it’s safe?”

“Well, yes. I am.”

He nodded…and he leaned over, pulling her into a deep kiss. And he pushed her back into the sofa, settling in between her legs. And he was ready, he reached down and felt for her readiness, which she was…and he took a deep breath…

…and slid inside of her.

He gasped. 

Her embrace was unlike anything he had ever experienced…no high could compare…he moved, and let out a groan, and Molly squealed, and that was enough…his pace quickened, and before he knew what was happening, he had filled her. 

“Molly Hooper you shall be the end of me,” he pulled out and rested his face on her sternum.

“I hope not,” she ran her fingers through his hair. “Budge up, I need to use the loo.”

“But you didn’t…”

“Don’t worry about me,” she smiled. “Later,” and she stood.

He sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. 

Perhaps it was best that she went to work that evening. He was beginning to feel as though he had lost complete control over himself.

And he didn’t mind in the least.


	15. Chapter 15

He was lying face down on his bed, naked. 

Molly had left for work almost an hour ago, but he couldn’t seem to move. He wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or something else unnamable which kept him oddly tethered to his bed. He wasn’t sleepy, it was only eight at night. 

But he and Molly had spent the entire day love making, and he was spent. He had explored every crevice, every inch of her, and though he couldn’t quite claim expertise yet, he was damn near. 

It had been a day unlike he had ever experienced. They ate when hungry, and were never fully clothed. He didn’t think he checked his phone once.

That made him roll onto his back. His phone.

He probably should check it. 

Sherlock finally sat up and went to pull on some pants. He sighed as he did so, and rubbed his face. 

He walked out into the sitting room, wondering where he had last seen his phone, and took note of the how quiet things seemed. It wasn’t that his flat was ever very loud, but perhaps he had been on sensory overload for the past twenty four hours or so. 

He looked around…and the phone buzzed a receipt of text.

In his coat pocket.

Sherlock went over and checked his phone. 

There were several texts, from several people…

'Hey mate. Just making sure you're ok after today. You were out of sorts. Let me know.   
J'

He smiled. John was such a fantastic friend.

'Sherlock, mummy wants you to come to dinner and bring Dr Hooper. If you can manage, since you are refusing to answer your phone, please confirm and provide availability.   
MH'

He snorted. He’d call in a minute.

'Got a case, if you’re around.  
Greg'

Then…

'Never mind. Got it sorted.   
You aren’t still cross about that thing?  
Greg'

'You are still pissed, aren’t you.  
Greg'

'Look, I’m sorry.   
Greg'

He sat down. He should speak with him. It was likely some case would manifest itself conveniently to bring him into Scotland Yard.

'Love you.'

He swallowed. That was the most recent. She must have just gotten to Bart’s. 

He typed…

'If I’m not here, please come anyway. I won't be too late. Possible case.  
I love you.'

Send.

He sat back and dialed up Mycroft. 

“Sherlock, where have you been all day?”

“At home,” he looked at the ceiling.

“You haven’t been answering your phone.”

Sherlock smiled. “When do I answer my phone, Mycroft?”

“Nor texts.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Short pause. “Busy.”

“Otherwise engaged.”

“I see…” another pause. “Did you receive my message?”

“Obviously.”

“And? Mummy didn’t want to bother you. I, of course, had no qualms.”

“Of course,” Sherlock laughed. “Well, I’ll need to check with Molly.”

“Then let mummy or I know as soon as you know. Tomorrow morning, I expect?”

“Probably. Was that all, then?”

“Yes…” he cleared his throat. “You are taking precautions, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

“This isn’t something I wish to discuss with you.”

“Well, you ought with someone.”

“It’s fine, Mycroft. Do relax.”

Another pause. “Tomorrow, then,” and he hung up.

Sherlock’s hand fell. They hadn’t been completely safe. Molly’s IUD apparently was enough protection, since they had both been tested fairly recently.

He kept telling himself that.

But to not use a condom was absolute bliss, and he couldn’t imagine going back.

He got up and got some water. His parents’ house for dinner. He wondered how she would take that.

Probably well enough. Molly seemed to like his mother. Most did, in fact. And his father…they were pleasant, ordinary enough people. He cringed. Well, for two rather dull individuals, they certainly produced fascinating offspring.

Or mad offspring, depending on one’s perspective.

He went back over to his phone and rang John. 

“What’s wrong?” came John’s voice.

“Nothing. Why do you think that something is wrong?”

“You never phone. Why aren’t you texting?”

“I…” he couldn't answer that. “I suppose I wanted to talk.”

There was a slight pause. “Ok…”

“I’m fine, since that was the subject of your text. More than fine, actually.”

“Oh good. I was thinking that either the two of you decided to call it quits or else you were shagging like two rabbits.”

“The latter.”

“Right. So…you’re good.”

Sherlock smiled. “I am.”

“Is she there now?”

“Nope. Work,” he paused. “John…how safe is an IUD?”

“Ah…pretty safe, I’d say.”

“That’s what Molly said. Contraception is not really my area.”

“Well, to be perfectly safe, two modes is always better than one.”

No answer.

“So. Planning on working tomorrow?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. I’m going to call Lestrade and then…probably wait for Molly. She’s done at two.”

“I’m around, if you decide to,” there was a hint of something in his voice. 

“It depends. If Lestrade has something…if not, then I’ll probably be staying in.”

John sighed. “Well, good. Just let me know, then.”

“Right,” and he hung up. There was something there…perhaps he was a touch lonesome. Sherlock looked up and around. If the mold could be removed…this flat would do nicely for John and Rosie. At least in the short term. The place he had now with her held so many memories…it was likely that John was depressed being there. 

That wouldn't do. He couldn’t have a depressed John Watson.

He could make the suggestion to him. How long did it take to remove mold, anyway? Not long. It was the perfect solution! 

Now, he just had to convince Molly to abandon her excellent flat and move into B with him when it was ready.

He smiled. He could suggest it, but it was unlikely she’d agree. At least, not right away.

He sighed and texted Lestrade.

'Not cross. Quite past it, actually.'

Send.

He paused.

'Sorry I was such a prat.'

Send.

He was receiving a response.

'It’s ok. I get it. You around to have a look at something?'

Sherlock smiled.

'Text the address.'

Send.

And he got up and dressed.

 

“Tell me it’s not true.”

He was scrolling through his phone, standing in Greg’s office at New Scotland Yard. “Well, I could,” he began. “But I’d be lying,” and he smiled at Donovan.

“I can’t believe it. You have a girlfriend. She must be mad.”

“She is, in her own way,” he showed Greg his phone. “Here. That’s where you’ll want to look. Abandoned buildings everywhere. The body was certainly dumped there.”

“But how did this even happen?” Sally continued, looking at Greg. “I thought he was either gay or not into it at all.”

“Why did everyone think I was asexual?” he exclaimed, exasperated.

“Or gay,” Sally supplied.

“Exactly.”

She shrugged. “I always thought you fancied Greg here. But as he’s clearly heterosexual, you gave it up.”

Sherlock looked at Greg and crinkled his nose. “You thought I fancied Lestrade.”

And Greg laughed. “Everyone had their own ideas, Sherlock. But not many would have guessed Molly.”

He shook his head. “Was my sexuality really such a topic?”

“Occasionally,” Greg smiled.

“Good god. People really are incredibly thick. This is what interests them when there’s so many things to consider in the world,” he took his phone from Greg. “I’d say buildings A and D are the most likely. You want to find Mrs Baker, look there first. Her son in law is the culprit,” and he turned off his phone. “You won’t be needing me further, I expect.”

“No, we’re good,” Greg smiled, sitting back with his phone ordering the search.

“Hang on,” Sally said, catching up. “You don’t mean that pathologist from Bart’s?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to leave.

Greg nodded while on the phone.

“The mousey one?” she smiled at Sherlock.

He froze. “What?” and he turned toward her.

“The one that pined over you for years? The one you treated like utter shit? I thought you hated her.”

“As usual, you were mistaken.”

“You go for mousey scientists, Sherlock? That is hilarious.”

He took a deep breath through his nose. “Donovan, I suggest you stop right there.”

“Hey, it’s your life,” she held up her hands. 

“It certainly is,” and he flipped his collar up. “And if you value yours, you won’t speak of Molly again,” and he left.

His strides were long and purposeful. It gave him pause, just how quick to anger he was when Donovan criticized Molly. He checked the time. 

Midnight.

He hailed a cab for Baker Street.

…and he sat, his head on the glass, thinking about Molly…

And this time it wasn’t with dread or with guilt, for he was reminded of that cab ride home from Sherrinford.

No, this was an anxious reverie, one that was hopeful and fraught with longing. 

But all in a good way, for his heart pounded and his mind raced. 

He could be madly in love and still be Sherlock Holmes, he was certain of it. He could embrace his deeply emotional self and still be logical. He needn't compromise anything, as he once believed being emotionally involved would demand. 

And he knew this because he was doing it. He solved the crime Lestrade had set before him in two hours. That was fairly usual.

And he did it without John, which was something.

Not that he would ever give John up, but there was that to consider.

The glass was cool to his forehead, and his bruise felt better. It was nearly healed. 

“221 Baker,” the cabbie announced.

He paid and exited the cab.

And into his flat he went…

He took his coat off and hung it up on the hook behind the door, pressed the palms of his hands to it. 

…and smelled something. 

He turned. Someone was here…

Molly.

She had gotten herself in his flat, even though she didn’t have a key…

Mrs Hudson, of course.

He looked around. She had obtained take away, and was waiting for him in the bedroom. She had lit a candle…maybe more…

She must have gotten permission to leave work early.

He smiled, and walked back to the bedroom…bits of her clothes were on the floor…

He opened the door slowly…

…and soft candlelight filled his vision. 

…and Molly was in his bed, hair down, smiling at him. “Hi,” she said.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled. “Indian?”

“Mm hm. Hungry?”

“Not for food.”

“Good.”

He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

“Mike let you out early?” he reached for her, and ran his fingers through her hair.

She closed her eyes. “In a way.”

He took his hand away. “In what way?”

“I took some comp time. I have about ten hours…and I thought…maybe if I left a few early, I could surprise you. You seemed like you didn’t want for me to leave.”

“I didn’t.”

“I didn't want to go.”

He let out a staggered breath. “What are you wearing?” 

“Oh, just this old thing,” and she leaned back, revealing a black, lace trimmed nightgown. “You like?” she smirked.

“Very nice. You may want to get another, though…” he leaned over to her.

“Why?” her dark eyes held question.

And he ran his hands up her torso to where the neckline dipped…and he tore the thing in two. “That’s why…” he said, as she squeaked…and he smiled, a low rumble escaping his mouth. “That sound, Molly…it does things to me…” and he covered her mouth with his. 

…and Molly tore open his shirt, buttons popping, as he undid his pants. 

He was on top of her in seconds, sliding in, and quickly begun his movement…Molly had barely moved herself, his desperation was severe. 

He hadn't realized how much he had missed her until that point, and he kissed her mouth as his quickened his pace, situating himself so that he was quite deep.

She groaned at that, and without further manipulation, climaxed.

He gasped and followed, shaking slightly and rested his forehead on hers. 

“How is that wound?” she said, touching his cheek.

“What wound?”

“Your forehead…” she smiled.

He rolled off of her. “Fine,” and he swallowed, falling onto his back. “Molly…”

“Hm?” she looked at him.

“I missed you today,” he said to the ceiling.

And she touched his chest, rubbing it softly. “Want some dinner?”

“You mean food?” he turned.

“Yesss…” she turned on her side.

“Not yet. I need to ask you a couple of things.”

“Ok?”

“First, my mother wants us to come to dinner at their house. As soon as convenient. Are you agreeable?”

She nodded.

“Secondly…” and he sat up, sitting against the headboard. He took a deep breath. “I was thinking that once B is ready, John and Rosie might move here. In C.”

Molly sat up with him. “That’s a fantastic idea. Do you think he’ll agree?”

“I’m not sure, but I thought that you might be able to help me convince him.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

He looked at his hands and folded them. “Would you….?” he cleared his throat. “Would you be averse to the idea of moving into B? With me?”

“You want me to move in with you?”

“Well, in a few weeks, it would be most pleasant for me. Would it for you?” he looked at her. 

And he couldn’t discern her reaction.

“I…”

“You don’t want to,” he said, instantly regretting he had asked.

“Well, I didn’t say that…but it is very soon, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” and he got up. “You are quite right. We should not rush things. It’s only been at least seven years of subtle flirting, denying, dancing around this issue,” he got some pajama pants and pulled them on.

“You mean it’s been seven years of me doing those things,” Molly corrected.

He waved his hand as he scooped out some curry for the two of them. “I had been too, just in a less obvious way.”

“And was that when you were insulting me, abusing my position, or using my flat as a bolthole and kicking me out of my bed?” she wrapped a blanket around her and stood.

“All of it!” he said, voice elevated. “My inexperience clouded every interaction we had. I am sorry that I wasn’t capable of making you aware of feelings I wasn’t aware of. But there it is, Molly. And now…” he handed her a paper plate. “Now that things are where they are, I want only to be with you. We love one another. Why is this a discussion?” he sat on the end of the bed. 

She sighed, wrapped as she was in a thin blanket, holding a plate full of curry. And she began to cry.

“Molly?” 

She set the plate down and left the room.

“Damn,” he got up and followed her. “Molly…” she was sitting in John’s chair, her face in her hands. He went over to her and pulled his chair over to her, sitting in front of her. “Molly…why are you upset?”

“It’s so silly. I…” she wiped her face. “I’m not usually so prone to cry. But…I suppose,” she swallowed. “…I have dreamed of you saying something like that. And you did,” she smiled. “But I don’t know, Sherlock. I just…I might need more time.”

He took her hands. “I can’t make you. But consider it a standing invitation.”

She nodded. 

“Are we all right?”

“Yes,” she swallowed and smiled. 

“Good. I’m sorry I upset you.”

“S’okay.”

“Can we go back to the bedroom now?” he smirked.

Molly laughed a touch and nodded. “You’re going to be replacing that nightgown, Sherlock Holmes.”

“What for? You won’t be wearing one terribly often.”

She stood. “It’s the principle,” she held her hand out and pulled him to standing. “Perhaps you can come with me and pick something out,” she smirked.

His eyes went wide. “Oh…yes. That’s an interesting prospect,” and he followed her to the bedroom where the curry was getting cold.


	16. Chapter 16

“So…you’re asking me to move in here?”

“Only if you think it’s a good idea.”

John sat back. “That’s really nice, Sherlock…”

“I’m not being nice. I’m being practical. You’re really no further from the clinic, and Mrs Hudson is practically a live in babysitter until Rosie is school age. And if I’m going on a case, you needn't wait for a cab.”

“It makes sense to me, John,” Molly smiled.

“You’re in on this, too?” 

“It’s not a matter of being ‘in on’ anything. I just think it’s a good idea,” she replied. 

“Do relax, John. Molly is a logical person. That’s why she’s defending the idea.”

“Are you moving in, Molly? In B?” John asked her pointedly.

And Sherlock blanched a bit…

“We have discussed it, but nothing decisive has been formed,” and she looked at her lap.

“This isn’t about Molly and I, John. This is about you and Rosie. Now, perhaps you’d prefer some time to think.”

John looked at both of them. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled. “Well, Molly and I need to be going. We have dinner at my parents’ house this evening.”

“Right,” John replied, standing. “Well…thanks. I’ll let you know,” and he put his jacket on. “It’s incredible, you know.”

“What is?” asked Sherlock.

“This…all of it,” John smiled.

“It’s forward movement, John Watson. Can’t remain idle forever,” Sherlock stood, and gave John a hug. “Say hi to Rosie for me,” and he pulled away, smiling. 

“I will. Goodnight, Molly,” he nodded.

“Night John,” she smiled.

And he left. 

“That went well,” said Sherlock, looking at Molly.

“Not bad.”

“He’ll be here a week after I move back upstairs,” and he went to get his coat. 

“That’s next week, isn’t it?” and she stood.

“Far as I know,” he flipped the collar. “Coming?”

“Mm hm,” and she pulled her scarf on. “Strange to think of you back upstairs.”

“Is it?” he held the door for her.

“Ya. Almost like…like…” 

He swung open the front door and hailed a cab. They both climbed in after he gave Mycroft’s address. 

“Like what?” he took his phone out and texted his brother. 

“Like…” she swallowed. 

“What is it, Molly?” he sounded a bit exasperated by her inability to express herself, and he put the phone away. 

“Like…maybe everything will go back to the way it was before.”

“What?”

She looked out of her window. “I mean, everything is so different, right down to where you live. It’s so strange, all of it. And it seems like…once some things go back to normal…everything will go back,” she ended softly.

“Mary won’t,” he said, more to himself.

“Of course.”

“Sorry…” he replied. “Bit insensitive to say.”

“Well, if I were John, it would be.”

“You are most certainly not John.”

She looked at him and smiled. “No.”

“No…” he was looking at her intently. “Molly, I think that your imagination might be getting the better of you. I’m not going back to the way I was. I can’t.”

“I can't help it. This is all so unreal in so many ways…and I know I’m just being silly. But for so many years…” she looked out of the window again. “So many years, I had given up any hope. And I even went so far as to get engaged to someone,” she looked at her lap. “And to be here…to be here with you. It’s just…”

“I hurt you more than I think I can ever understand,” he interrupted.

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“I’m so sorry, Molly. I truly am. You, unfortunately, fell in love with a broken man. Fortunately for that man, you never stopped loving him…and I hope that I can make it worth your pain.”

“You’re working on it,” she looked at him and smiled. 

And he returned it, just as they reached Mycroft’s…

 

“Tell me, Molly. How do you put up with my son?” Violet asked. 

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Molly sipped some wine.

“See, mummy? Not so bad.”

“The poetry of true love,” observed Mycroft.

“Shut up Mycroft,” and Sherlock took another sip.

William Holmes appeared to be tired. “I am sorry, but I think it’s best if I retire. Molly, it was a pleasure,” he pecked her cheek. “Take good care of her, Sherlock,” and he nodded to his wife and Mycroft.

“Sherly, would you mind helping with the dishes?” Violet stood. 

“Can’t Mycroft do it?” 

“William Sherlock Scott…” she admonished.

“Why is it that you gave me three names and every time you wish to threaten me you use all three? Mycroft got two,” and he stood.

“William Sherlock Scott,” Molly smiled. "Never heard anyone say that out loud."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed his mother. 

“Sherlock doesn't care for the three names. I'm not sure why, but then, I'm not prone to answer for his preferences.” supplied Mycroft.

“No. I wouldn't think you'd share them.”

“Occasionally. But rare enough.” and Mycroft sipped some more. “He seems very happy. No doubt due to you,” he smiled.

“Well, I think it’s probably a combination of things.”

“Such as?”

“His…recent revelations concerning his past. The fact that John may be moving into C in a couple of weeks with Rosie. That sort of thing.”

Mycroft nodded. “That surely makes him happy.”

“I think so.”

“But you underestimate yourself, Dr Hooper. I think that you may not quite appreciate just how huge this is for him.”

“He’s had girlfriends, right?”

Mycroft cocked a brow…”Mm…not that I know of. He has had physical intimacy with two or three women. Not including yourself. But to have an emotional attachment…no.”

Molly nodded. “He seems as though he might be attempting to understand things…but he doesn’t appear to be so…new?” she sipped again.

“Then he’s doing a good job,” he smiled.

She shrugged. “It’s still early.”

“You’re skeptical.”

“I’ve been in love with him for years, Mycroft. I’m protecting myself…”

And Sherlock came into the dining room. “Well…shall I light the hearth?” he looked at them. “What have you been saying to her, Mycroft?”

“Why would you assume…?”

Violet came in. “Well, I’m off to bed. You three can see yourselves out, I trust?” she kissed her two sons, and then Molly. “I’m so happy, dear…” she smiled, and left.

Mycroft stood. “Shall we?”

Molly stood and went to Sherlock. “I love a fire,” she smiled.

He nodded and picked up his wine. “I’ll get it ready. Mycroft is rubbish at lighting a fire…or anything, for that matter.”

…and Molly laughed.

They were in the sitting room, having polished off two bottles of wine, and it was getting rather late. “I think you made a wonderful impression, Molly. Mummy loves you, and father appears very keen,” Mycroft observed.

“Thanks,” she smiled.

“Of course they love her. She’s enchanting,” Sherlock smiled.

“I dunno about all that, Sherlock.”

“If I say that you are, you are,” he tipped his glass and downed it. “Well, should we be off, then?”

“You know,” Mycroft began. “I always referred to Euros as the East Wind…”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Are you familiar with Zephyros?” he looked at them both.

“The Greek God of the West Wind?” Sherlock replied. “What of him?”

“There are many stories from Homer about him…but one little thing that I recall…about swans…” he paused and cleared his throat, “On the banks round about stand more musical swans, singing I think, as befits the contestants. The winged youth is an indication that a song is being sung, for he is the wind Zephyros and he gives the swans the keynote of their song. He is painted as a tender and graceful boy in token of the nature of the west wind, and the wings of the swans are unfolded that the breezes may strike them,” he paused. “You’re free, brother mine. You offer a song now, instead of a script.”

“What does that mean, Mycroft?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But you should embrace it,” and he shook his head. “I haven’t told you enough over the years, Sherlock. But I do love you. And everything I’ve done has been in an effort to protect you from your demons. Which, it appears, you have all but slain yourself.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You have always had my respect, Mycroft. And my love. No matter what I may have said or done to suggest otherwise…”

They all stood.

“Best be home then,” observed Mycroft. “My driver can see you both,” he smiled and led them out of the house.

And the car ride was a bit on the quiet side…Sherlock was staring out of the window and Mycroft was intent on staring at his umbrella.

Molly had taken her phone out, but wasn’t really paying much mind to it. 

They reached Mycroft’s house and he got out, nodding to them both. “See that they are returned to Baker Street,” he told the driver.

“I like him,” Molly said, after he left.

“What’s to like?”

“Dunno. He’s serene and rather…”

“Irritating?”

She laughed. “He’s trying. Same as you are.”

“I love him very much. Always have. But he is infuriating,” and he looked at her. “Are you all right?”

“Mm hm. Yes.”

“Do you want to come back to Baker Street? Or should I ask him to take you to your flat?”

Molly smiled and leaned over, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. “I always want to be where you are, Sherlock Holmes. I always have.”

He nodded. “I know that you have reservations about me, Molly.”

She pulled away, and looked out of the window. “It’s difficult. And no matter how much I tell myself to stop being silly about it, I can’t.”

“You’re not being silly,” he whispered.    
“I am. I know you’ve changed. But it’s hard when you’ve grown so accustomed to a thing being a certain way, and then it suddenly isn’t…and I guess…I just need to get used to us, being together, before I can accept us…living together…” she looked at him. “I want to live with you, Sherlock. I want to come home to you…but not yet.”

He nodded. “Yep,” he punctuated the ‘p’. 

“Are you cross?”

“Of course not. Just anxious. I don't want to give you a reason to not move in in the interim.”

…and they arrived at Baker Street.

They got out of the black car and went to the door. It was quite late…after midnight. Molly appeared to be tired…”Are you sure you won’t be more comfortable at your flat?” he asked.

“We can just sleep, you know,” she pushed the door open after he unlocked it. 

“Molly, what have you learned over the past couple of weeks?”

“Right,” she said. “But I have work tomorrow…” and they walked down to C.

He sighed as he opened the door. “Well…perhaps I can light some candles and massage your back…”

“Oh really?” she was a touch shocked, and they went in. 

“If you’re a good girl,” he smirked.

They took off their coats and Molly sat on the sofa.  
 Sherlock opened a bottle of wine and lit a candle. He poured out two glasses and went over to her. “Here,” he handed her the glass, and set his own on the table. “Lean back…” and she rested her head against his chest. 

He started massaging her shoulders. And she sighed. “This is nice.”

“It could be yours almost every day.”

“Sherlock…”

He laughed. “And this…” he kissed her ear.

“Stop it,” she sniggered.

“Or maybe you’d prefer this….” and he cupped her breasts.

“…Can you just rub my shoulders? It’s been an age.”

“All right, Molly Hooper. You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know…” she swallowed…

…and closed her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue up next!


	17. Epilogue

John was there with Rosie…and she was laughing.

They had moved into C just a few days previous, and things were…

Loud.

But he honestly didn’t mind.

“When will she be here?” John said, holding Rosie while she looked at a book.

“She didn’t say,” he was paging through his music, looking out into Baker Street, holding his violin.

“It’s a nice chair.”

“Mm…” he didn’t turn. He knew that John meant the yellow easy chair stationed next to Sherlock’s leather one. He began to play a rather upbeat tune for Rosie’s sake…and the child clapped her hands.

“It’s incredible…just how much it looks the same. You’d never know a drone went off here.”

Sherlock didn’t answer…he was too preoccupied.

The song was fairly new, so he was concentrating on that…and he was thinking…Molly sounded off on the phone. 

He didn’t like that.

It had been a strange couple of weeks. He was trying very hard to be as attentive as possible, and trying also to not pressure her. 

He couldn’t adequately put into words how much he desired her presence at 221B Baker Street to be permanent.

“Hello,” came her voice, and he looked up at her, smiling, as he continued to play.

She was radiant as she entered, which was something. 

“Hey, Molly…” John smiled. “Look Rosie, It’s Auntie Molly!”

Molly went over to the child and kissed her head. “Hi Sherlock. That’s lovely,” she remarked as he finished. 

He nodded and put the instrument down. “It’s new.”

She smiled broadly and looked at John. 

“Well…about that time, Rosie?” 

And Sherlock looked at John, and then Molly. Something had transpired between them. She wanted to speak with him alone, and that was a signal.

Either she was going to tell him that she was not now, nor would she ever be moving in. Or she was leaving him altogether. 

Though he couldn’t think of what the catalyst might be for such drastic action. 

John left, and Sherlock cleared his throat. “I gather you wish to discuss something.”

“Yes,” Molly replied, and sat in her chair. “It’s very comfortable,” she smiled.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

He looked at her crookedly and sat in John’s chair across from her. “I’m sitting.”

She looked at her feet. “So…I’ve been thinking…”

He felt ill. He was going to be sick…”Molly…please. If you’re going to leave, just say so. No theatrics.”

“What?”

“You made John leave. There was a nervous thing that transpired between the two of you. I’d much rather you say that you’re desperately unhappy and leave it at that.”

“Are you desperately unhappy?”

“No,” he mumbled. 

“Then why would you think that I am?”

“Because…because…you’re bound to be eventually.”

Her brow furrowed. “No. That’s not how this works.”

He sighed. “Sorry. Just a bit unsure of myself.”

“That’s ok…so…I’ve been thinking…John is settled in with Rosie…and, you know, my lease is up in a couple of weeks…”

His eyes went wide. “Are you saying…?”

“I am. If you still want to,” she smiled.

“Oh…” he swallowed. He slid off his chair and onto his knees in front of her. He placed his hands on her knees. “Molly Hooper…there is nothing that I want more. Except perhaps to see Mycroft with a friend.”

“Why? Is he very lonesome?” she touched his cheek, looking at his mouth.

“No. I merely want to rub it in that he needs people, too.”

“William Sherlock Scott…” she smirked. “That’s perfectly awful.”

“Have you that riding crop, Molly?”

She blushed. “Maybe.”

“Then you’ll need to use it on me, for being a perfect bastard, right after I use it on you for uttering all of those ridiculous names.”

Molly leaned over and kissed his mouth softly. 

…and Mrs Hudson brought in their tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting! It was a ton of fun to write. I might do a Molly POV story relating to TFP...bit more angsty.   
> Sorry about the riding crop trope. Couldn't resist.


End file.
